Page 54 of Twelfth Knight’s Bride

“Well, surely he told ye about his inheritance, aye? Held in trust at Fearn Abbey?”

Of what on God’s green earth did Brighde mean? And yet Brighde continued spilling.

“It was my mither who put the condition on his inheritance, for even she contested our sire’s line of descent going to James—”

Brighde cut herself off, a guilty look marring her brow.

“Did he nay receive his monies and title upon yer faither’s death? As his heir?”

“Oh, his title, aye, and the castle’s coffers and these lands, but in order to claim his personal money, he needs to complete a couple tasks to the satisfaction of the abbot with writ of proof—goodness, it’s nothing.” Brighde waved her off, readjusting her hold on Aileana’s arm.

Yet Aileana pondered. What secret was being withheld from her? She’d suspected Jamie had initially intended to make an example of Clan Grant when he’d married her, a notion further bolstered by his soldiers’ gossiping about subduing her abed. But she’d chosen not to believe it. After all, Jamie had given back her earrings, ordered her gowns made, kissed her passionately, and made reparations to her people of his own accord—that, and he had yet to take her to bed, thus honoring his promises. But now, with Brighde’s alcohol-loosened tongue, suspicion niggled once more. What had James’s true reasons been for demanding this marriage? He’d still not told her, and she, overwhelmed by all that had happened, hadn’t thought to press him.

And yet the way he was looking at her now…

Their gazes connected once again, and he offered her a playful grin, lifting his tankard in salutation, as Angus chattered on about something and James stroked the massive hound’s head. Nothing in his gaze felt false. It felt right. So why did something feel so wrong about Brighde’s admission?

“I just thought ye should ken the truth,” Brighde added, “because, well, ye make it all possible now, giving yerself to him, and I ken it means much to him, considering our clans’ contentious past.” She shook her head to herself. “My, what a birthday gift this makes.”

“Birthday gift? My handfast?” Was Brighde speaking in tongues?

“Why, James’s day of birth falls on Epiphany. He hates to acknowledge it, but did he nay tell ye?”

Aileana frowned. She had thought to leave Jamie on his birthday?

“I fear I’ve somehow confused ye—oh, the bard is going to sing!” With a nervous sigh, Brighde peeled herself away to gather around the bard and musicians tuning their instruments, decorated in Yuletide splendor of rich evergreen velvets.

Odd. What did she make possible for James now? Losing herself in thought, she stared at nothing, feeling the fire heat at her back, feeling numb. It was as if Brighde was avoiding telling her more—

“My lady,” a deep voice thrummed beside her, and she looked up. James stood beside her, his brow soft and content, holding out his arm to her. “May I join ye? We burn the Cailleach tonight, though mayhap, considering our poor luck yesterday, we should have burned it sooner.” He chuckled, for all knew that burning the Cailleach—the wooden carving of an old hag—was supposed to bring good luck.

She nodded and slid her arm into James’s bent elbow, forcing a smile, as wee Maudie entered the hall, still donning her crown and carrying a small log in her arms with the carving upon the bark. The hall hushed, and the lassie, struggling to carry it, made her way into the room, resisting young Harris at her side, who tried to help her with her load.

Shuffling across the floor, she eventually made it up the steps to the hearth, and this time, as she fumbled it onto the grate, spraying sparks, James scooped the child out of the way and picked up the log, repositioning it in the flame.

“Easy there, Yer Grace,” he teased. “We cannae have yer tunic going up in flame.”

Aileana giggled, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Had such a girlish sound just escaped from her? Aye, this drink was potent, for she was feeling light-headed. And, sakes, James was looking down at her, his elbow tightening around her fingers. His eyes dipped to her lips. Her tongue flicked out to wet them nervously, and blast it, but his gaze remained fixed there, unabashed yearning on his face, Aileana’s cheeks stained pink beneath his assessment. Had she really suggested that she might consent to more with him?

He dipped his head to her ear. “Pray the lassie orders her laird to kiss his lady once again. I should like every chance I can get before Epiphany to taste such a treat.”

She sucked in hard, held her breath, unsure what it would sound like coming out. How bold! And how she wished he would kiss her again, feel him encapsulate her in his arms once again. Feel his arousal, and know it was his attraction to her that compelled such a reaction of his body. Did he burn inside as she did when they kissed? Did it feel as if his blood was on fire, thumping hard and fast like galloping stallions? As he’d said before, there was no shame in sharing sweetnesses, for they’d handfasted.

And should their handfast dissolve, there would be far less shame in having shed her maidenhead should she choose to explore her attraction to him more deeply—God above, what am I thinking?

Yet there was sadness in his words, too. Acceptance that he only had a fixed amount of time, or perhaps he was offering her a chance to correct him and announce she would like to stay. Sakes, Twelfth Night was fast approaching, and now that she knew it was his birthday, guilt settled in her gut. There were only a few more sleeps until Epiphany. She needed more time! How did one make such a life-altering decision so quickly?

“Ye’re fretting. Are ye well?” he asked, his brogue rolling low and soft at her side and a concerned furrow creasing his brows.

She nodded, swallowing in a futile attempt to wet the chalk in her throat. “Just shaken from the attack. ’Tis all.”

He pulled back, determined to look at her more deeply. “A lie, I’d wager,” he said. “Ye’re thinking about something far more serious.”

As if the MacLeod attack hadn’t been serious. And yet she didn’t sense malice in his statement. He’d always been good at reading her thoughts.

“Would ye like to retire for the eve?” he asked.

“Goodness, no. I wish to celebrate the victory.” This time, her smile softened genuinely.