Eight
“Inever accepted a wager,” Brodie growled at those watching the disaster unfold. He spun on his heels and stormed after Laurel. When he reached Monty and Donnan, he halted. “She’s yer sister. When are ye going to protect her like ye should?”
“She’s a woman full-grown,” Monty corrected.
“Aye. But she was dumped in the woods and left for the wolves when she was a lass. Now everyone faults her for learning to protect herself,” Brodie argued.
“She’s not the first woman to come to court unwillingly. But she’s the only one who can’t fit in,” Monty stated.
“When will ye realize she isnae like other women? And that isnae for the worse,” Brodie barked. He left Monty and Donnan staring after him as he ran after Laurel. He chased her until he spotted her rose-hued skirts in the distance. His longer legs soon covered the distance that separated him. He called out to her, “Laurel.”
Without looking back, Laurel pushed herself to run faster, but she knew the battle was lost when she reached stairs she could never climb faster than Brodie. She slid down the wall until she sat on a step, her shoulders shaking from the power of her sobs. Brodie sank down beside her and pulled her against his chest.
“Dinna,” Laurel choked, but she didn’t push Brodie away. She curled into herself and sagged against his powerful frame. Neither spoke, but Brodie held her as she cried. She’d thought she’d been upset when she sobbed against Monty’s shoulder only days earlier, but it failed to compare to the gut-wrenching torrent of tears and emotions that engulfed her. The only thing that kept her anchored to earth was Brodie’s solid presence, his silent strength.
Brodie’s heart ached for the woman in his arms. Her ire hadn’t surprised him, and he’d welcomed it directed at him rather than anyone else. He understood others would ridicule her for her diatribe toward him, but he had skin thick enough to weather it. Any man maligned as Laurel had been would have struck out with his fists. A physical fight wasn’t an option for Laurel, so she defended herself with what she had. He could see a wildness to her that was never meant for the confines of court. If others had recognized it, too, and perhaps offered her compassion and warmth when she arrived, her time at Stirling Castle would have been different. But Laurel wasn’t meek. Her family may have profoundly wounded her, but she was resilient in her own way. Brodie intuited that when Laurel least deserved love and kindness, she needed it the most.
Laurel inhaled the pine and sandalwood scent from the skin that peeked through the laces of Brodie’s leine. The heat he generated soothed her much like a hot bath helped ease tension. His calloused palm ran over her back as he comforted her with his presence rather than with platitudes. As her tears slowed, and she no longer scrunched her eyes closed, she listened to the steady rhythm of Brodie’s heart. It was predictable and even, a point to focus upon as she tried to calm herself. The tension slipped from her shoulders and back, leaving her pliable and relaxed against Brodie’s chest.
“How can ye care?” Laurel whispered. Brodie considered her words. She hadn’t asked for the reason he did care. Rather, she didn’t understand his ability to. Brodie’s heart tugged even more as it dawned on him that Laurel felt entirely unlovable. He considered that Laurel had spent nearly as many years at Stirling as she did at Balnagown. But she wouldn’t have remembered much of her first four or five years among her clan in any case. It must have felt like she’d spent more time at court than with her family. It was more time spent feeling left out than included.
“Because I understand ye, or at least I believe I do.”
“What is there to understand? I’m spiteful and hateful, and probably the most unladylike woman of yer acquaintance.”
“Ye’re a thistle,” Brodie responded. When he said no more, she leaned back. Her watery eyes showed her confusion. “Ye’re beautiful from near and far, but ye’re prickly when someone comes too close. But ye’re also as hearty as the Highland flower. Nay matter the strength of the gale, ye and the thistle survive. For those brave enough to face the spiny leaves, they discover the flower smells sweet. The thistle is a solitary plant, easily overlooked compared to roses and heather. That doesnae mean that it isnae worthy of admiration. The thistle is the symbol our Scottish pride for a reason. It’s like our people, indomitable and proud. Ye’re a thistle, Laurel. Indomitable, and ye should be proud.”
“Brodie,” Laurel shuddered as she burrowed back against his chest. Brodie tipped her chin up and brushed away the last tears with his thumb.
“Shh, Laurie. It tears at ma heart to see ye so wounded.” Brodie saw the spark in Laurel’s eyes when he used the diminutive. “Do ye like me to call ye Laurie?”
“Aye,” Laurel breathed. “I’ve never thought of maself as a flower. But if I ever had, I suppose I would consider maself a bush of nettles.” Laurel offered Brodie a watery smile, and he returned it with a grin.
“As prickly and itchy as the nettle might be, even its tea is good for the body,” Brodie pointed out.
“Do ye intend to boil me alive to find ma softer side?” Laurel gazed up at Brodie, but a shiver coursed along her spine when she caught the spark of desire in Brodie’s eyes.
“Laurie, I’ve already found it,” Brodie whispered before he lowered his mouth toward hers, giving her a chance to push him away. Laurel slid her hand up Brodie’s chest and over his shoulder until her fingers tangled in the hair at the base of his skull.
“I think I’ve found yers,” Laurel murmured before their lips pressed together. The spark of desire turned into a raging fire as Brodie fought the urge to crush Laurel against him. He flicked his tongue against her lips twice before growing bolder and pressing it against the seam of hers. Guessing what he wanted, she opened to him. Her gasp of surprise when his tongue entered her mouth made Brodie wonder what else he could do to elicit such a sound. Laurel shifted restlessly against him, twisting her body closer to him. Brodie’s hand slid down to cup her backside. When she gasped again, Brodie fisted his other hand in her hair, steeling himself against the temptation to press her beneath him on the stairs and hike up her skirts before thrusting into her.
A sound in the stairwell a flight below them made them jerk apart. Laurel turned a terrified expression toward Brodie, who was already pushing to his feet. He helped Laurel to hers, but neither moved beyond that. They waited to determine if the sound drew nearer. When it receded instead, Brodie wrapped his arm around Laurel’s waist and pulled her against him. She put up no fight, her hands pressing high upon his chest.
“We canna stay here, Laurie. There’s more to say to one another, but I willna have ye forced into marrying me because someone finds us like this.”
Laurel nodded as she looked around them. Brodie was right; if anyone found them, even if they weren’t kissing, she would have no choice but to marry Brodie. He might have shown an interest in her—he might even desire her—but Laurel was unconvinced that he wanted to marry her. She stepped back and lifted her skirts, prepared to finish climbing the stairs, but Brodie blocked her route.
“Are ye all right to make it to yer chamber?” Brodie asked.
Laurel cocked an eyebrow and fell back into her courtly speech. “Do you believe your kisses sufficient to keep me so weak kneed that I can’t walk to my door?”
“Keep you weak kneed?” Brodie smirked. “Then they have done a fine job to start.”
Laurel rolled her eyes. “If anyone is in need, it is you.” Her gaze flickered downward for a moment. “Of having your sporran remain in place.”
“Saucy as ever,” Brodie laughed, his hand darting out to cup her backside as he took two steps down, bringing them eye-to-eye.
“Do you wish me to be otherwise?” Laurel quipped, but Brodie felt her anxiety as her body tensed.
