Page 37 of Never Tempt a Scot
A soft sigh came from her side of the bed. “It’s rather lovely, and it sounds fitting.” Her tone was filled with a quiet wonder that stirred a strange feeling within his chest.
“Scotland is lovely,” he agreed, and a sudden, undeniable need to be home filled him, making his chest tight. “Some call it a harsh land, because it has so few soft edges like England. But what is there—the cold lochs, the rocky mountains, the wooded glens and primeval forests—’tis stunning. All that is strong lives and grows in Scotland. There is a beauty to that.”
He closed his eyes, picturing the lands around Castle Kincade, the way the light gleamed upon the green hills where the castle perched and the way the sky reflected upon the still waters of the loch nearby.
“That does sound rather wonderful.”
“The land changes with the seasons. In spring, the fields are covered with wildflowers. In the summer, a heat settles thick upon the meadows until the storms come off the coast and carry away the humid air. And in the fall, as the leaves change and Samhuinn approaches ...”
“What is Samhuinn?”
“Samhuinn signals the end of summer. We slaughter our fat cattle and preserve the meat for our long winter ahead. We also light bonfires to remember the old ways. Samhuinn Eve is the night when the shadow bodies of the dead walk once more amongst the living. That night, the veil between the worlds becomes as thin as gossamer. Many hills and ridges have special places where we set pyres ablaze to signal the start to a new year. It is said that this is where the living and the dead dance and sing in the flickering shadows together.”
Lydia turned on her side to face him. “Do you believe the dead rise again during Samhuinn?”
“I do,” Brodie replied, his tone quiet. “The first Samhuinn after my mother died, I was in the library. There was no candlelight—only moonlight filled the room. I saw a figure by the window. Her gown seemed to ... I don’t know how to describe it, but it seemed to be blurred at the edges, like smudges or the tendrils of black smoke crawling up from a dying fire. I didna know who the woman was until I approached her. She turned toward me, only to vanish in silvery mist. But as she did, I saw her face as clearly as I see yours now. It was my mother.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Were you frightened?”
“Of my mother? Never. She was a woman who held only love in her heart. But now I fear that someday my father will come back as she did. I doubt that reunion will be as pleasant.”
“Your father is gone as well?”
“Aye, he is, and thank bloody Christ too.”
“You didn’t like your father?”
“No. I didna like him, and I certainly didna love the man. He was a cruel bastard. We buried him not too long ago, and I fear every approaching Samhuinn now that he will return. He would not be kind if he did. He would be angry and spiteful, and I dinna wish to see that.”
“I can understand that.” Lydia sighed, the sound so sorrowful it piqued his curiosity.
“I ken your father is alive, but what of your mother?”
“She’s been gone six years. I lost her when I was fourteen. Portia was only twelve, and it was very hard on her and Papa.”
Brodie kept still as he listened to her. He didn’t want her to know that he was trying to detect any hint of deception in her story.
“You loved her, then?”
“Very much.” Lydia’s smile was soft and bittersweet. “She was an exquisite beauty, like my sister. I look a little more like ... well, a faded watercolor version of her, at least according to my great-aunt Cornelia. You might remember meeting her at the ball.”
“The old dragon who dragged you away at the ball?”
“Yes, but as I said, that wasn’tme.” Lydia’s eyes met his solemnly. “I know you don’t believe that, but I’m telling the truth. It was my sister. She’s only eighteen and so very young and innocent, at least in some respects. I didn’t know she would be so reckless, let alone that she would convince my father to do what he did.”
There was a genuine earnestness in her eyes, but he wasn’t convinced. “Even if I began to believe you, lass, your stories would do no good now. You are ruined, and you belong to me.”
Though the truth was, even if she was as innocent as she claimed, he would not let her go. Not anymore. She washiswoman, and he simply had to convince her of that.
“Please ... I know you don’t care about me. Let me go home, and I might still be able to find someone who would overlook my being compromised.”
Brodie didn’t want to hear another word. “No, lass. Ask me that again and I will silence you with a kiss, and if we kiss, I cannot promise that we willna do other things.”
Lydia’s eyes widened, and she rolled away from him. A moment later he heard sniffling as she wiped her face.
Bloody Christ, the woman was crying. He reached out and gripped her waist, pulling her against his body. She struggled for a moment but then surrendered when she realized she wouldn’t get her way. He kissed her ear and then the crown of her hair, not to seduce but to soothe.
“You’ll be fine. I promise. I will care for you. You’ll have fine gowns, jewels, even a dainty white horse to ride. Whatever you wish.”
