The Bride Says Maybe Read Free Page A

referring to Davidson’s debt vouchers Breccan now held in his possession. It had not taken him long to collect them. None of Davidson’s creditors had thought he would honor his debts and they’d been happy to sell them to Breccan for mere shillings on the pound. “There are other things you could have done with that money than to buy yourself a bride,” Jonas assured him. “Besides, you can have almost any other lass for free, and she would be more robust and bonnie. The Davidson lass is a whey-faced thing.”
    Yes, Breccan was buying a wife, but he did not agree with Jonas’s description of Tara Davidson. She was no ordinary woman. ’Twas said that men in London lined the walk in front of her house for just one glimpse of her shining red hair and blue eyes. Breccan understood why. From the moment she had ridden onto his property, demanding to speak to his horse master with all the high-handedness of a queen, he’d been smitten.
    He’d always thought tales of sirens claiming a man’s soul or bawdy women leading men to destruction to be nonsense. Men were created of sturdier stuff than that—and then he’d met Lady Tara.
    She’d barely spared him a glance that day, but her presence had moved something deep in his soul, something he would have denied existed if he’d been asked.
    Breccan wanted many things in life. He wasn’t afraid of hard work or making sacrifices, but in that moment of meeting, he’d never wanted anything more than he had her. He was obsessed with her. He’d even gone to the kirk so he could have another look at her. Him! A man who had always claimed the kirk walls would come tumbling down around him if he’d ever stepped foot in a sanctuary. But he had done so . . . for her.
    And he knew himself well enough to realize he’d have no peace until he had her. Then, perhaps, he would be more himself again. Then he could pay attention to his accounts and his work and not lose hours in the day and night trying to recall the exact shade of blue in her eyes.
    But Jonas and Lachlan did not know any of this. Indeed, he’d not mentioned her name until an hour ago when he’d announced he would marry.
    Davidson had readily agreed to the marriage when Breccan had proposed the arrangement to him. Indeed, he’d happily sold his daughter if it meant Breccan wouldn’t throw him into a debtor’s prison. This far from London, the drunkard didn’t have any of his English friends to protect him. And here, in Scotland, a man paid his debts, or it was taken out of his hide.
    Breccan looked to his younger uncle. “What do you think, Lachlan? Do you agree with Jonas?”
    Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Does it make a difference what I think, Breccan? You’ve already made up your mind.”
    Because of Lachlan’s years with the navy, his accent was not as thick as Breccan’s and Jonas’s . . . something that never seemed to bother Jonas but of which Breccan was painfully aware. Lady Tara had English manners, and her voice had just the melody of Scotland to it without the harshness.
    “I would hear what you have to say,” Breccan said. “Let us clear the air.”
    “Then before we ride up that hill to take your wife, I would ask what your reasons are, lad?” Lachlan said. “You’ve not shown a particular preference for any one woman before—”
    “Because he behaves like a monk,” Jonas interjected. “Which is a waste of a God-given gift. If I had what you had, Breccan, I’d be forking them all. The ladies would love me. Aye, that they would.”
    Breccan could feel the heat rise to his skin, and he was grateful for the wool muffler around his neck. Jonas might think a man’s balls something to brag about, but Breccan felt anything but pride. He was painfully aware of his great size, and not just of his privates. He always stood a head taller than other men in the room. There was no way he could hide his presence or appear to be “amongst” the company instead of head and