The Bride Says Maybe by Cathy Maxwell Page A

“I want to be on the road.”
    “Aye, Breccan is right,” Lachlan agreed.
    The laird looked to Tara. “Are you ready?”
    Tara felt a discontent. He wanted to whisk her away too quickly. It was as if he was anxious to dismiss her family.
    “I am not,” she said stoutly. “I haven’t even packed a valise.” She hadn’t really stopped to consider that Annefield was no longer her home.
    “Then pack,” he said. “Jonas, go fill your belly. You may go with him also, Lachlan.”
    “Are you not hungry, Breccan?” Lachlan asked.
    The laird shot another glance of disgust toward the earl, and announced, “I’m hungry for my home. I shall be waiting for both of you outside.” He walked out of the room.
    It was a rude response. Mrs. Watson was surprised, as was Tara. “He means to leave now?”
    Jonas nodded. “Breccan likes his bed. He never lingers. What does the cook have for us?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “Breccan may not want to enjoy good food, but I do. The cook at Annefield is famous.”
    “Then come this way, sir,” Mrs. Watson invited. She didn’t have to ask twice. Jonas was right at her heels as she left the room.
    Lachlan followed although he paused in the doorway and looked back at Tara. “If I were you, my lady, I’d be packing. As you could tell earlier, Breccan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
    “Does he always do exactly as he pleases?” Tara asked.
    Laughter lit Lachlan’s eye. “Usually. But then I have a feeling, you are as headstrong. This marriage will be interesting.” He followed the others.
    For a second, Tara wanted to rail against all that had happened. But then she realized protest was futile. Her decision had been made.
    She looked to her maid, Ellen, who lingered in the hall, waiting for her command. “Come, Ellen,” she said to the maid. “Help me pack.”
    “I’ve started doing a bit of it, my lady.”
    “Thank you,” Tara said as she started up the stairs. It would not take long to prepare.
    There was a footstep behind her and she turned to see Myra, another household maid, following. “Mrs. Watson instructed me to come help.”
    Tara nodded. Myra was a buxom lass who was a great favorite of the footmen. She took pride in her worldliness. She was not the best of servants, but right now, Tara needed help.
    Upstairs, Tara’s bedroom was a mess. Dresses, shoes, and scarves had been removed from the wardrobe. The valise was open on the bed. Tara realized she didn’t know how they would travel. Nothing had been said about a coach. For a second, she debated having Ingold order one prepared, then decided to be quiet.
    Laird Breccan’s demands for her to pack with all haste, then his leaving the house to wait outside annoyed her. Especially after that pretend kiss, not that she had wanted to kiss him. Oh, no, kissing the air was fine with her.
    Still, his imperial manner provoked her. All men were stubborn, but he behaved as if were a prince of the realm—which he was not. She knew the Prince Regent, and Breccan Campbell was no Prinny, especially with all that hair outlining the leanness of his cheeks and the hardness of his jaw. Didn’t the man own a razor? Facial hair was not the style, although, she had to admit, the shadow of his beard was not unattractive on the Campbell . . .
    Tara caught the direction of her thoughts and forced herself to think on the task at hand. No good would come from softening toward him. She’d be wise to keep her guard in place.
    “Pack just the necessities in the valise,” Tara decided. The bag was small enough it could be carried on a horse or stowed in a coach. “Tell Mrs. Watson to have Simon”—she referred to the footman who served many duties around the household—“deliver a trunk to Wolfstone on the morrow. In fact, who knows what the laird has in the way of luxuries at Wolfstone? For all I know, they sleep on animal skins.” And considering Laird Breccan’s boorish behavior, that could well be