Free The Bride Says Maybe by Cathy Maxwell Page B

the hearth.
    Holding her brace of candles, Tara walked in, her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor.
    Laird Breccan closed the door behind, and suddenly the room seemed very small. Tara worked to not panic.
    He walked past her to the four-poster bed that dominated the center of the room. It was not an ornate piece of furniture but sturdy and substantial, as one would expect for someone of his size. He set the valise on the bed.
    “There is a trunk over by the corner for your things,” he said. He crossed to the hearth and knelt. He began building a fire. He was using peat and wood and seemed to be deliberately busy, as if attempting to avoid meeting her eye.
    Perhaps he was as nervous as she?
    The idea seemed preposterous. What did he have to fear? He would be the one doing the splitting!
    “I know the chest is not enough room for what you own,” he continued, “especially with my gear in there. I’ll move it out tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can have another chest made or whatever you wish. You know more about your needs than I do.”
    I need to return to Annefield.
    She stayed silent.
    Smoke came from the hearth. He waved it away and checked the damper. It was open, but a peat fire was always smoky in the beginning. They didn’t use peat in the house at Annefield.
    He stood, and she could have sworn he was taller than ever. She stared at the corner post of the bed. They stood not more than three feet from each other. She braced herself, waiting for him to pounce.
    Instead, he said, “I’ll give you a moment.”
    He left the room.
    Tara found she could breathe again. She was so thankful, she almost sank to the floor. Instead, she set the candlestick on the chest.
    The furnishings truly were sparse, and there wasn’t any softness anywhere.
    She walked over to the bed and tested it by sitting on the edge. The mattress was hard and rested on a bed of loosely woven ropes. They were a bit loose. She imagined the laird had to see these ropes tightened often. They would stretch with use and time.
    She hadn’t thought about beds before.
    Whenever she had thought about marriage in the past, she’d had vague ideas of what married life would be like. Truthfully, she hadn’t concerned herself with anything other than the wedding breakfast. She’d planned whom she would invite and what would be served, but she was realizing that she’d ignored many practical matters.
    She rose from the bed, but as she did so, her foot bumped something on the floor. Bending down to see what it was, she discovered a stack of books piled haphazardly beneath the head of the bed where the room’s shadows had hidden them. One was open and facedown. Aileen would have scolded him for treating a book in that manner.
    Tara pulled the open book out to see what it was. She couldn’t tell. It was written in Greek. Puzzled, she placed the book back. Laird Breccan didn’t seem like the sort who would be bookish.
    Then again, what else was there to do out here in the wilds of Scotland? She had even started sampling the books at Annefield although it was not a pastime she enjoyed.
    A knock sounded at the door. “My lady?” her husband’s voice asked.
    Panic made her chest heavy. “ I’m not ready . Not yet. Just a minute more.”
    “Very well.”
    She paced around in a circle and decided she must be brave. She opened her valise and removed her nightdress. Ellen had packed it.
    Tara removed her hat and pulled the pins from her hair. Her hands trembled as she plaited it into one long, fat braid. She prayed she didn’t embarrass herself when the time came for her to let him have his way.
    Making quick work of undressing, she pulled the nightdress over her head and climbed on the bed. What did one do when sacrificing oneself? She pulled back the counterpane and climbed beneath the sheets. They were clean but not as fine and soft as the sheets from Annefield.
    Tara studied the ceiling a moment, prayed for courage, and then said, “I’m ready.”