Music to My Ears
Broderick wasn’t surprised when Lily’s eyelids began to droop. She’d had a full and eventful day, but still summoned the inevitable pout when he beckoned Doreen to take her to bed. “I want to stay with ye and Kyla.”
“’Tis past yer bedtime,” he replied, hoping the evening wasn’t going to end with an argument.
Kyla came to his rescue. “I’m tired too. I’ll come with ye, Lily.”
He racked his brain for an excuse to accompany them, but his sister solved the problem as she rose from her seat. “Will ye play me to sleep like ye used to when I was a wee bairn, Broderick?”
It was a poignant reminder of happier times. The perceptive Kyla was correct that Lily missed his music as much as he did. “With pleasure,” he said truthfully.
He summoned his valet. Teak nodded when told where to find the shawm tucked away in his armoire.
Seemingly satisfied, Lily took hold of his hand and Kyla’s. The three sauntered out of the hall, Doreen trailing behind.
As they walked hand in hand along the corridor to Lily’s chamber, Broderick was transported back to a time when his parents used to escort him to bed in the same manner. He’d been cherished by a gifted mother who’d passed on her love of music; had she sensed she would never meet the bairn she carried?
He glanced across at Kyla who smiled back as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, but eyed the shawm quizzically when Teak handed it to him at the door of the chamber.
Impatient to play for her, he blew a few notes, the heat rising in his face when strident off-key sounds emerged from the long-neglected instrument.
Kyla’s green eyes widened.
“Nay yet,” his sister whined. “When I’m abed.”
“Come along, cheeky lass,” Doreen admonished, prodding Lily to the boudoir.
“Only if Kyla helps.”
Broderick rolled his eyes at the stubborn minx’s ploy. Kyla shrugged in feigned resignation and the three females disappeared.
He sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and played a scale. The instrument definitely needed new reeds, and possibly a new pirouette, but it wasn’t as if he was intending to play for a concert audience.
Nevertheless, he wiped his palms on his trews, one after the other, strangely nervous. He could probably play the shawm in his sleep, but with Kyla watching…
*
Kyla sat on the edge of Lily’s mattress, listening to Broderick’s music. She’d often helped Isabel put her four half-brothers to bed, but there was something endearing about a tired little lass tucked up in clean linens, her face red from Doreen’s scrubbing.
She was amazed Lily hadn’t yet fallen asleep. Her own eyelids were drooping.
The musicians at Dun Scaith played shawms, but the sounds emerging from Broderick’s instrument were deeper, more soothing. She tapped her hands together softly when he stopped playing. “Bravo.”
He blushed at the praise. “’Tis a tenor,” he explained, as if he knew she’d heard the richer tone, “and in need of new reeds.”
“I’m afraid I dinna ken much about music,” she admitted.
He nodded thoughtfully. “But ye ken whether ye like a piece or nay.”
“True. I like what ye just played.”
“Our mother taught him,” Lily interjected.
“But ye dinna play?” Kyla asked.
Lily yawned. “Nay, my mother died birthing me.”
Kyla’s mouth fell open. She had more in common with this wee lass than she thought. She’d always regretted not knowing her own mother. However, if Elspeth hadn’t died in childbirth, Darroch MacKeegan might never have brought his illegitimate daughter under his protection. She’d probably have lived the hand-to-mouth life of a peasant. But such sentiments would entail relating more of her history to a young lass who’d lost both parents than was prudent. “’Twas my stepmother taught me what I ken of the finer things in life,” she revealed.
Lily sat up. “Like what?”
Kyla had no choice but to explain, though most men generally greeted her aspirations with snickering disbelief. “We study women writers,” she murmured, steeling herself for Broderick’s snort of derision.
“Elizabeth Melville, I’ll warrant,” he said.
She glanced at him sharply. She’d heard no censure in his voice. “Aye,” she replied. “Though Elizabeth’s Godlie Dreame is a mite overly religious for me.”
He smiled. “And for me. My father was the religious firebrand in this family, always plotting to reestablish the auld religion.”
Kyla heard almost nothing of what he said, except that he’d read Elizabeth Melville!
She risked another admission. “I’d like to publish something more interesting to everyday folk. Like a history of the Hebrides.”
“Or a travelogue,” he suggested. “I’d read it.”
Lily folded her arms across her chest. “Nobody wants to teach me anything.”
Rapt in Broderick’s easy acceptance of hopes and dreams she’d never shared with anyone other than her parents, Kyla realized they’d neglected the lass. “I can teach ye to write, if ye wish,” she promised.
Lily flopped back on the bolster, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Weel, if ye’re staying longer, ye can also teach me to captain a boat.”
*
Broderick felt chastened. It had never occurred to him Lily might want to learn music—from the brother she loved. It was so obvious. But she was being too forward, expecting Kyla to teach her how to captain a boat, indeed. As if a young lass…
He wisely swallowed what he’d been about to say, though he was guiltily glad his sister had suggested a task that would entail Kyla staying in Galloway longer.
Kyla shook her head. “’Twas my father taught me to handle a boat,” she explained patiently, tugging the linens up to Lily’s chin. “And in the Hebrides, if ye dinna learn to master the waves, ye barely ever go anywhere.”
Lily sighed. “I’d love to go to Skye and see Dun Scaith.”
“Maybe someday I’ll take ye,” Kyla replied, so wistfully Broderick itched to summon his gunboat crew and order them to prepare for a departure on the morrow.
He closed his eyes, imagining…he and Kyla, standing at the prow, the wind lifting her incredible hair…
But he’d a murderer to apprehend. That was as good a reason as any not to go.