Read Online The Laird (Captive Hearts) by Grace Burrowes - Free Book Online
Authors: Grace Burrowes
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saying, Brenna?”
“Angus thinks Scotland should be overrun with sheep.”
“Scotland is overrun with sheep, so is England, and I suspect Ireland and Wales aren’t faring much better, but I’ll tell you this: wool had much to do with why Wellington’s armies were successful.”
“You didn’t fire wool bullets, Michael.”
He got up to pace, abruptly impatient with her, her ledgers, and the way she could keep some part of herself in silence even in the midst of a conversation.
“Wool is light in weight, it keeps a body warm even when it’s wet. Even the finest wool is hardy as hell, and it doesn’t stiffen up and hold the wet like leather. On the Peninsula, officers were quartered in the old convents and town halls, the churches and what have you, but the men bivouacked on any patch of dry ground they could find, often without even tents to protect them.”
Brenna rose too, and Michael was reminded that his dear, sweet little wife had acquired height in his absence.
“Wool is a fine product,” she said. “Every croft in the shire has a loom, and we weave and knit as much to sell as we do to wear, but Brodie land can support more than a bunch of bleating sheep. You’ve bottom land, pastures, decent fields marled for year upon year that can grow a good crop of oats. How many more of the clan do you want to see replaced by sheep?”
In one corner of his mind, Michael marveled that he was arguing with his wife, and delighted that she trusted him enough to disagree with him. Another part of him admired the way her bosom heaved when she was in a taking and had forgotten to wrap herself in her damned shawl.
“I don’t want to see any of the clan replaced by sheep. How many tenants did my father have?”
“Forty-six families when he died, and that was down from fifty-eight when he married your mother.”
Why hadn’t Angus given him those numbers?
“You haven’t told me why you’re withholding wages from the people who work here at the castle.”
She turned away from him, picked up her ledger, and set it atop a stack on the escritoire.
“I save a bit back for each one, so when the damned sheep have eaten every last holding and garden on Brodie land down to the roots, my people will have a little something to build a future on.”
He had more questions for her, questions he would not ask—yet. Why so few MacLogans among the employed? How did she choose to whom to give employment when so many needed it? Why did she call them her people and not our people, while the bottom land was his not ours ?
“Can we afford to throw a party?” The inquiry was genuine, in light of their discussion.
“Of course. A celebration will be expected now that you’re home. Choose a date, and I’ll confer with the staff.”
Her tone was mild, as if they hadn’t been nearly shouting at each other two minutes earlier, and yet, Michael had the sense he’d disappointed his wife—again, some more.
“A week from Friday. That will allow everybody to sleep off their drunk before services on Sunday.”
Brenna resumed her place at her escritoire, opened the ledger, and dipped her pen in the glass inkwell.
“Next Friday, then. Cook will have Davey’s basket ready by now.”
She was dismissing him, as effectively as if Wellington himself had muttered, “That will be all, Colonel Brodie.”
Wellington was hundreds of miles to the south, God be praised, so Michael stayed in the doorway, studying his wife. She was pretty, tidily swathed in her hunting tartan, and angry as hell. He was not sure how he knew this, but he would have bet his horse it was so.
He would not ask her what he’d done wrong, lest he fall prey to that female conundrum that started with: “If you have to ask…”
When he repaired to the laird’s bedchamber to take off his riding boots, he saw Brenna’s riding habit hanging on the door of the wardrobe, and insight struck, rather like a serving of a bad haggis.
He’d not only gone riding
“Angus thinks Scotland should be overrun with sheep.”
“Scotland is overrun with sheep, so is England, and I suspect Ireland and Wales aren’t faring much better, but I’ll tell you this: wool had much to do with why Wellington’s armies were successful.”
“You didn’t fire wool bullets, Michael.”
He got up to pace, abruptly impatient with her, her ledgers, and the way she could keep some part of herself in silence even in the midst of a conversation.
“Wool is light in weight, it keeps a body warm even when it’s wet. Even the finest wool is hardy as hell, and it doesn’t stiffen up and hold the wet like leather. On the Peninsula, officers were quartered in the old convents and town halls, the churches and what have you, but the men bivouacked on any patch of dry ground they could find, often without even tents to protect them.”
Brenna rose too, and Michael was reminded that his dear, sweet little wife had acquired height in his absence.
“Wool is a fine product,” she said. “Every croft in the shire has a loom, and we weave and knit as much to sell as we do to wear, but Brodie land can support more than a bunch of bleating sheep. You’ve bottom land, pastures, decent fields marled for year upon year that can grow a good crop of oats. How many more of the clan do you want to see replaced by sheep?”
In one corner of his mind, Michael marveled that he was arguing with his wife, and delighted that she trusted him enough to disagree with him. Another part of him admired the way her bosom heaved when she was in a taking and had forgotten to wrap herself in her damned shawl.
“I don’t want to see any of the clan replaced by sheep. How many tenants did my father have?”
“Forty-six families when he died, and that was down from fifty-eight when he married your mother.”
Why hadn’t Angus given him those numbers?
“You haven’t told me why you’re withholding wages from the people who work here at the castle.”
She turned away from him, picked up her ledger, and set it atop a stack on the escritoire.
“I save a bit back for each one, so when the damned sheep have eaten every last holding and garden on Brodie land down to the roots, my people will have a little something to build a future on.”
He had more questions for her, questions he would not ask—yet. Why so few MacLogans among the employed? How did she choose to whom to give employment when so many needed it? Why did she call them her people and not our people, while the bottom land was his not ours ?
“Can we afford to throw a party?” The inquiry was genuine, in light of their discussion.
“Of course. A celebration will be expected now that you’re home. Choose a date, and I’ll confer with the staff.”
Her tone was mild, as if they hadn’t been nearly shouting at each other two minutes earlier, and yet, Michael had the sense he’d disappointed his wife—again, some more.
“A week from Friday. That will allow everybody to sleep off their drunk before services on Sunday.”
Brenna resumed her place at her escritoire, opened the ledger, and dipped her pen in the glass inkwell.
“Next Friday, then. Cook will have Davey’s basket ready by now.”
She was dismissing him, as effectively as if Wellington himself had muttered, “That will be all, Colonel Brodie.”
Wellington was hundreds of miles to the south, God be praised, so Michael stayed in the doorway, studying his wife. She was pretty, tidily swathed in her hunting tartan, and angry as hell. He was not sure how he knew this, but he would have bet his horse it was so.
He would not ask her what he’d done wrong, lest he fall prey to that female conundrum that started with: “If you have to ask…”
When he repaired to the laird’s bedchamber to take off his riding boots, he saw Brenna’s riding habit hanging on the door of the wardrobe, and insight struck, rather like a serving of a bad haggis.
He’d not only gone riding
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