Think before Ye Speak
Broderick threw off the drying linen as he paced the narrow confines of his dressing room. He touched a finger to the sore spot on his head. There was no blood and it didn’t seem to be swollen, which was more than could be said for the flesh between his legs.
The only way to calm his body was to rid himself of the memory of wide green eyes, damp red hair, pink shoulders, breasts bobbing…
It was hopeless.
He pressed an ear to the door adjoining his chamber, relieved to hear his sister’s voice. That meant they’d left the bath. There might yet be a chance to relax in the warm water and gather his thoughts.
He retrieved the towel, tucked it around his waist and tiptoed down the steps to the grotto. He opened the small door an inch, listened, then breathed again. He strode to the edge of the pool, dropping the towel before plunging into the warm water.
Hoping the bath would work its magic, he stretched out his arms against the stone wall, leaned back and studied the mosaics on the ceiling. His family was fortunate that an ancestor had built their castle atop the ruins of a Roman villa. Remarkably, he’d preserved the spring-fed bath and repaired its cisterns instead of destroying them. A wise man, indeed.
Successive generations of his kinfolk had added on to and improved the castle. The magnificent Caerlochnaven of today was a far cry from the original fortress but, as far as Broderick was concerned, the warm bath was still the best feature.
His tenants would probably take a dim view of the amount of time he spent there, but it was a good place to think and find answers when Aiglon wasn’t forthcoming.
On the day of his father’s execution, he’d only dragged himself out of the soothing water in order to console Lily. The bitter memory quickly put paid to any lingering traces of his arousal.
Some said it was his duty to go to Edinburgh to witness the beheading, but he preferred to remember his father as the jovial, indulgent man he’d been before clan hatreds got the better of his reasoning. Even the thought of his sire’s head stuck on a pike was enough…
He cocked his head, listening. It wasn’t unusual for sounds to echo in the grotto.
There it was again.
Singing.
Kyla and Lily were singing.
While he was immersed in feeling sorry for himself, his sister was singing and laughing—something he hadn’t heard her do since…
“Time for action,” he scolded as he heaved his body out of the water. “Kyla MacKeegan and I need to have a talk.”
*
After the evening meal, the MacKeegan family and the folk of Dun Scaith castle often enjoyed a night of singing and dancing, led by the clan piper. Everyone joined in, though Kyla didn’t have a good singing voice. The warm memory washed over her when Lily started to sing while she dressed. It seemed natural to hum along, though she didn’t recognize the tune. When Lily embarked on the unfamiliar words, Kyla improvised.
“Ye’ll have to teach me the words,” she said when the song was finished.
“Broderick’s the one to do that,” Lily replied. “He’s a wonderful singer.”
Kyla might have known the arrogant laird’s deep voice would produce melodious tones. It struck a chord within her every time she heard it. “He sings?” she asked lamely, dragging her thoughts back to the chamber.
“Aye, and plays all manner of instruments, though he hasna played since…”
The bairn’s expression changed. The pink drained from her face as she studied the carpeted floor.
Kyla wondered what had caused the garrulous lass to shut her mouth like a clam. And why had Broderick stopped playing?
It was on the tip of her flippant tongue to ask when she remembered what Corbin Lochwood had said about the previous Maxwell laird being an assassin. “I sense something bad happened to cause him to abandon his music, but ye dinna have to tell me…unless ye want to.”
She was pleased with the thoughtful way she’d handled the situation. There might be merit in thinking about what you said before the words came out of your mouth. She’d always had a tendency to simply blurt out her thoughts and feelings.
Lily looked up, her pretty face distorted by sorrow. “They chopped off my father’s head and stuck it on a pike,” she wailed.
*
Broderick’s hair was almost dry and neatly tied back; his shirt, trews and tunic were clean and feather-free, his boots polished. He adjusted the plaid pinned to his shoulder, cleared his throat and raised his hand to knock.
“A fine kettle o’ fish when a laird has to request leave to enter his own chamber,” he lamented under his breath.
A sound from within raised the hairs on his nape. Someone was crying.
Lily.
By the saints! A while ago she’d been singing, now she was sobbing.
He thrust open the door after tapping lightly, his spirits plummeting at the sight of his sister wailing on Kyla MacKeegan’s shoulder.
The speech he’d rehearsed concerning his prisoner’s return to Skye blew away like chaff on the wind. Confused emotions swirled in his heart. He was Lily’s protector—the one who comforted her, rushed to her bedside when nightmares plagued her sleep, calmed her fears.
Yet, he’d often wished she had a female to share the good times and bad—a woman she trusted. The two looked so right sitting together on his bed—like sisters. Kyla belonged there.
He shook his head to dispel the insane notion and swallowed hard as he went down on one knee beside them.
He nigh on fell over when Kyla pierced him with green eyes ablaze. “What were ye thinking, Broderick Maxwell, to tell a bairn they stuck her father’s head on a pike? Is it nay bad enough she kens he was beheaded?”
His hackles rose. Who was this woman to tell him how to bring up his sister? He regretted revealing the gory details to Lily, but this stranger had no right to an opinion about his father’s execution. He stiffened his spine, came to his feet and lifted Lily. “That’s none of yer affair, Mistress MacKeegan. I am laird here.”
It dawned on him immediately he’d spoken too harshly.
The Highland lass clenched her jaw, clearly angry, but her eyes conveyed a different message. He’d hurt her feelings.
“She was only trying to make me feel better,” Lily hiccupped, squirming out of his embrace.
Blast! Now he’d also upset his sister.
A laird ought to think before he opened his mouth. But thinking was a skill he didn’t seem to possess when Kyla was present, especially when the confounded woman looked so appealing clad in his shirt.
At a loss, he fell once more into the same trap. “We need to have a discussion about yer prompt return to Skye.”
“Nay,” Lily shrieked, clinging to Kyla, “ye canna leave yet. Why can she nay stay longer, Broderick?”