Frocks
Kyla perched on the edge of Broderick’s bed and stared at the frocks Doreen had laid out while she was in the bath. They were beautifully sewn, and elegantly simple in design, if slightly old-fashioned.
She felt better now she was clean, and supposed there was no alternative but to don female attire. Her own garments would need to be sent to the laundry after the strenuous day at sea and she couldn’t keep borrowing Broderick’s shirts.
It wasn’t as if she never wore dresses at home, but maintaining her tomboy persona seemed safer in the current situation. Let no Lowlander think she was anything other than captain of a Hebridean birlinn.
The memory of finding the gravedigger’s body refused to leave her. It filled her heart with an insistent foreboding the murder was an omen.
The recovery of her drowned crewmen had been a tremendous relief. Upon their return to the castle, Broderick had immediately made arrangements for a burial on the morrow. Their final resting place would be far from Ywst, but it was preferable to a watery grave.
A tap at the door heralded Lily’s arrival. The lass noticed the dresses straight away. “Will ye wear one?” she asked. “They’re waiting to serve supper.”
Kyla had little appetite, but the men who’d manned the oars would be hungry after the long day without a proper meal.
She could choose to stay in the chamber.
And do what? Brood and fret? Despite her resentments, she had to admit she looked forward to Broderick’s company. His genuine regret over the deaths of her kinsmen touched her heart. She was drawn to him like a moth to the flame.
She shivered. That was a foolish and potentially dangerous notion.
“This one, I reckon,” Lily declared, holding one of the frocks against her body. “It belonged to my mother, but ’tisna too fancy.”
The hopeful look in the bairn’s eyes underscored how much the lass craved her attention. “Aye,” she agreed. “’Twill be my honor to wear it, but I draw the line at braids again. Some in the hall might be offended, but…” She ran her fingers through damp hair. “…Doreen did them so tightly my scalp thinks my hair is still braided.”
Lily laughed mischievously as she began loosening her own tresses. “Good idea. I ken exactly what ye mean.”
Convinced Doreen already deemed her a bad influence, Kyla shrugged the frock over her head, and stood in front of the mirror.
Lily joined her.
“We look like a pair o’ gypsies,” Kyla said with a grin.
“Aye,” the lass replied gleefully, grasping her hand. “Let’s go.”
Kyla chuckled. Lily might turn out to be a tearaway tomboy after all.
*
Broderick nigh on knocked the bench over in his haste to get to his feet when Kyla and Lily skipped into the hall, hand in hand. Some folk murmured surprise, others outrage at the informality.
Doreen screwed her already wrinkled features into an expression of horror.
But Broderick’s heart swelled. He hadn’t seen his sister so impishly happy since before the king’s militia had arrived in pursuit of their father before his flight to France.
And Kyla—in a vaguely familiar dress that was a wee bit too tight on shapely hips, but had just the right amount of décolletage. His tarse responded predictably. It was completely inappropriate. She had suffered grievous losses, yet she brought a breath of fresh air into a hall that had been solemn for too long.
The same could be said of him.
The sight of her was enough to make a man’s heart sing.
The notion sobered him as he gestured for the lasses to take their places either side of him. Music had always played an important role in his life, but it seemed wrong to sing when things were so dire.
“Ye look bonnie in a dress,” he said softly, inhaling the aroma of damp tresses.
She blushed shyly, the flush blossoming across the swell of her breasts.
He might have babbled something incoherent had Lily not espied the three slings on the table in front of him. Her eyes widened as she picked one up. “Are these…?”
When Kyla leaned over to grab another, he suddenly found himself peering down the front of her décolletage at two perfect globes and a hint of areolas. His arousal turned to granite. If she moved a little to the left, he might get a glimpse of nipples.
“Slings,” she exclaimed. “Ye meant what ye said.”
He half-expected her to climb up on the bench and swirl the weapon over her head. Hippolyta in Caerlochnaven. Obviously, lust was driving him out of his mind. “Aye,” he rasped.
For at least ten minutes he had little idea of what he was eating as he struggled with his dilemma. Wedged between two excited females who suddenly seemed oblivious to his presence, he tried to ignore Kyla’s breast pressed against his arm, all the while smiling like an indulgent older brother should at his sister’s obvious glee.
Then came the moment of truth. Lily noticed the third sling. “Why did ye get three?”
*
Overheated, Kyla backed away from Broderick, suddenly aware she’d been leaning against him in a most unladylike way. She almost laughed at that notion. Since when had she ever cared about being ladylike?
Still, her behavior wasn’t appropriate, especially in a dress cut lower in the front than she was used to. A quick glance at the frowning folks in the hall confirmed it. The problem was she’d enjoyed the closeness. For a few minutes, she’d been transported to Dun Scaith, sharing back-and-forth banter with her siblings. Except Lily wasn’t her sibling, and her feelings for Broderick bore no resemblance to the easy camaraderie between her brothers.
In fact, the Maxwell laird evoked new, but not unpleasant, feelings and cravings and she didn’t know what to make of them. She’d tried to hold on to her bitter resentment. The loss of the Lanmara would always rankle, but she realized she harbored no bitterness towards the man in command of the gunboat. After all, it was Corbin Lochwood who had precipitated the sinking.
She fingered the sling. Whoever had made it knew what they were about. The weapon was a welcome reminder of home, of pleasurable hours spent with her father, of past difficulties overcome, of enemies vanquished. She hadn’t truly expected Broderick to provide one, but her thoughtless remark about him meaning what he said might have left the impression she doubted his word.
She glanced up, ready to offer an apology, but the words stuck in her throat. She was close enough now to see his eyes weren’t black as she’d thought. The longing in the deep brown depths caused a peculiar warmth to spiral up her thighs and into her womb.
He licked his lips like a bairn who wants something really badly.
She swallowed her nervousness. “I think your brother got the third sling for himself,” she told Lily.
“Aye,” he replied, his voice deeper than ever. “Will ye teach me?”