Disastrous? Worst in yer life? Are ye no’ being a bit melodramatic?
Well, aright. The week she found out the Oliphant bastards—including Alistair—had to get married—that had been a horrible week.
And the week when she’d eaten those raw oysters, despite being suspicious they were no’ as fresh as the merchant had claimed, and had been unable to quit puking long enough to beg for mercy, that had been a horrible week.
Oh, or the week when she’d gotten her first menses, and had been certain the devil and all his little demons were playing a pipe-and-drum parade across her lower back, that had been a horrible week.
And let us not forget the week when Brohn had tricked her into rubbing nettles across her arms and shoulders, telling her ‘twould make her smell good to the lads, and she’d been inflamed and red and in pain for days—
Actually, that one wasn’t so bad, because she’d gotten back at her older brother by putting soap in his stew.
Heh.
Still, this week was among the worst she’d ever experienced. If she would’ve been able to just hide in her chamber, or the kitchens, or even the great hall, and avoid Alistair, it might’ve been one thing. But nay, she had to actually see the man; sit with him, talk to him…and not touch him.
Blessed Virgin, but the not touching part was the hardest of all.
She wasn’t certain how she made it through those meetings with him, discussing his father’s birthday celebration. She sat on that same stool, the stool she’d moved to his side of the desk the afternoon she’d helped him relax, and ‘twas impossible not to sit there and think of that day.
Or the evening they’d spent in her bed.
Or the afternoon he’d proposed marriage to her.
Or the myriad of heated glances and breathless—
Aye, impossible no’ to think of it apparently.
They didn’t speak of those times, the kisses nor the lovemaking nor his cock. They didn’t bring up his erroneous assumptions that she’d had other lovers besides Treenis, nor did he ask who the man was whom she’d given her heart to. And they most definitely didn’t bring up his ill-thought-out marriage proposal.
Instead, they talked about the birthday celebration. She was certain she could’ve handled the planning process alone, but she liked being with him. And she liked that—now that he’d turned the clan’s correspondence over to Kiergan—he had more time for rest.
Unfortunately, he didn’t look more relaxed. Whenever she was with him, he seemed…awkward. He kept looking at her as if he couldn’t figure her out.
As if he was confused.
And that made her heart ache.
She’d set out to make him laugh as often as possible, and oftentimes it worked. When he smiled or laughed, she felt as if she’d succeeded in taking care of him. He’d relax then, slumping back in his chair and asking her opinion or thoughts on something-or-other, and that gave them a chance to talk about all sorts of things.
But never love-making. Nor marriage. Nor his father’s contest to determine who would become the next laird.
Because bringing up any of that would likely cause her heart to break even further.
“Why are ye in such a snit?”
Lara jerked her attention away from her task—which she hadn’t been too successful at anyway—to glare over her shoulder at Nessa. “I’m no’ in a snit. Who says snit, honestly? And what in damnation is a snit anyhow?”
“Damnation!” roared little Liam, who was playing with carved soldiers on the rug by the hearth in the women’s solar. “Damnation!” He made the sound of an explosion, and knocked over five little figures, as Nanny—the large, hairy hound who was his nursemaid—lifted her head and whuffed inquisitively.
“Oh, excellent,” hissed Nessa, “ye taught him a new word!”
Shaking her head, Lara turned back to wee Tomas, who was sitting in the chair in front of her, propped up by pillows. She was trying to get him to eat some of the mashed peaches she’d made, so he’d have something besides his mother’s milk, which he was always spitting up.
“Liam,” she called over her shoulder, scooping up another small bite of the mashed baby food, “dinnae use that word. But if ye do, tell yer father ye learned it from Brohn, aright?”
“Damnation, Brohn!”
Nessa gasped, “Dinnae blame yer brother for yer own terrible vocabulary!”
“Why no’?” Lara shrugged and waggled the spoon with a smile, adopting a sing-song tone. “He likely taught it to me, did he no’? Aye he did, he did. Open up for Auntie Lara’s peaches, angel.”
“Yer brother is a saint, Lara Oliphant,” Nessa snapped from her chair where she was embroidering.
“Nay, he isnae, and ‘tis glad ye are of the fact,” Lara teased, still trying to coax the bairn to open up.
Her friend’s huff was enough to make Lara smile, knowing Nessa had all sorts of interesting feelings for Brohn, despite her father’s sixth betrothal contract with the second Henry Campbell still being negotiated.
When the bairn finally opened his mouth, and she was able to push some of the mashed peaches inside, she felt like crowing with victory.
“Lasses, stop bickering. Ye’re giving me a headache.” The command came from the opposite side of the room, where Lady Agatha sat knitting. “And Lara, ye have been in a snit. Spit it out.”
As if he understood his great-great-aunt’s order, wee Tomas opened his mouth and pushed all of her hard work right down his chin.
“Damnation,” she muttered, reaching for the rag she kept nearby for this very reason. Tomas was not a clean eater and would vomit with the least provocation. Still, he was a happy bairn, and that was enough to make her forgive him.
“Lara, stop saying damnation,” snapped Agatha.
“Daaaaammmmmmnnnnation!” called Liam. “Doooooooom!”
“Och, well,” quipped Nessa, “I can see who he’s been listening to.”
“Shut yer wind-flapper.” Agatha dropped her knitting to her lap with a sigh. “I’m never going to get these hand-stockings finished, am I? My fingers are half-frozen already. Lara,
