The MacGregor Brides Read online

  It was barely eight.

  She stumbled for her robe just as her door burst open. Julia's hair was wildly tousled, her feet bare and her eyes wide. "Look out the window. You won't believe it until you see it."

  "I hear it," Gwen said as voices sounded in the hall. Doors opened and closed, feet pounded. "Sounds like everyone else does, too. What's Grandpa done?"

  "Not Grandpa." Taking the matter into her own hands, Julia grabbed Gwen's arm and dragged her to the window. "It's Bran." Stunned, Julia stared outside. There on the wide slope of lawn were ten burly men in kilts, leaping in a Scottish reel. "Ten lords a-leaping," she managed.

  "Lairds," Julia corrected, grinning like an idiot. "Even better, there are eleven pipers piping, and twelve drummers drumming. I'd say that wraps it up, honey. Your true love didn't miss a trick."

  "He…" She stared down at Branson. He stood in the midst of the melee, his hair flying in the wind. "He did all this for me."

  "He's crazy," Julia stated. "He's in love. He's amazing."

  "Yes. Yes." Laughing, Gwen pressed a hand to her mouth. True love, she thought, her true love had no sense at all. And wasn't that wonderful? "He's all of that. He loves me. He really does. It's not a mistake, it's not too fast, it's not a passing infatuation. It's perfect. He's perfect."

  "Then what are you doing up here, when he's down there?"

  "I'm going." She slipped on a pair of boots, and with her robe flapping behind her, she raced for the stairs. Her family was already ahead of her, bundling into coats or boots or just streaming out the door in their robes. She saw her grandparents by the door, with Anna calmly buttoning Daniel's overcoat.

  "I don't need it."

  "You do, it's a cold wind. I won't have you catching a chill. The pipers aren't going anywhere."

  "And fine pipers they are." He caught sight of Gwen speeding down the stairs and sent her a smug grin. "Well, that's a lad, isn't it?"

  "Yes." She caught his bearded face in her hands and kissed him long and hard. "But I'm not thanking you for at least a week." With that, she rushed outside into the cold and pushed her way through her family until she had a clear view.

  "Be quiet," she demanded. "I can't hear." But she might have been talking to the wind for all the good it did her. Then it didn't matter, they could talk and shout and laugh. She didn't hear them. She only heard the pipes and drums as Branson started over the snowy lawn toward her.

  She didn't notice that her family actually became silent. She didn't notice that tears shimmered cold on her cheeks. She only saw Branson's face, and his heart was in his eyes.

  "Merry Christmas, Gwendolyn."

  "Branson—"

  "I love you," he told her, lifting a hand to brush a tear from her lashes. "You're everything I want. I admire your strength, your honesty, your compassion and your logic. I need you in my life. I'm promising you here, in front of the people who matter to you most, that I'll never let you down."

  "That's a lad!" Daniel boomed out, with tears in his voice. "I told you, by God, that's a lad!" When Branson smiled, Gwen felt her mother take her hand, squeeze it. In support, in approval, with love. Then Serena let it go.

  "It's not all the twelve days of Christmas," Branson told her. "But it's a start. Will you have me, Gwendolyn?" Her heart brimmed over as she stepped forward, stood between him and her family, and took his hands. "I told you I wouldn't be pressured, I wouldn't be pushed."

  "Oh, give the guy a break, Gwen."

  Ignoring the order from her younger sister, Gwen kept her eyes on Branson's. "And I won't be. But I can't resist being loved, or loving you back. So I'll answer you in front of the people who matter to me most. Yes, I'll have you, Branson, and you'll have me."

  "Well, kiss the girl," Daniel demanded.

  Branson shot a look over Gwen's head, met Daniel's fiercely glinting eyes. "I think I can handle it from here," he said. And he kissed the girl.

  From the Private Memoirs

  of

  Daniel Duncan MacGregor

  It's my pleasure to say that my choice of young Branson was better than even I anticipated. He's a clever Irishman. We're proud to have him as part of the family.

  I watched his face when our Gwen started down the aisle toward him in her fairy princess gown and heirloom veil. There was love there for a lifetime, and more.

  Anna and I, our hands linked, watched them take their vows. Life is a circle and love is what gilds it. In that church with the light streaming through the stained-glass windows in rainbows, my Gwen and her Branson began their own circle within those circles forged by all the generations before.

  I take no credit for this—for to take it causes all manner of trouble. I'll just enjoy it. So another spring is here. Our Gwen is beginning this new life. Our Laura is round and healthy with the babe she carries. Julia now, she keeps herself busy as six beavers. She's a sharp one, she is—takes after her grandfather. She's my jewel, and make no mistake I've outlined my strategy there even while settling her cousins. She'll be a tough nut, but hah!

  There's no tougher nut than Daniel Duncan MacGregor.

  I'm planning on enlisting a little help with this arrangement. Had my eye on this boy for years—and so has Julia though she'd suffer the tortures of hell before she'd admit it. Stubborn lass, God bless her.

  The two of them are perfect for each other. A pair of hotheads who snarl and snap at each other at every opportunity. They'll make fine strong babies for me—for Anna, I mean. The poor woman pines for babies.

  Anna's already packed the MacGregor wedding veil away. I didn't want to mention she'd be taking it out again before a year's passed. I give my word on it.

  Part Three - Julia

  Chapter 21

  Contents - Prev | Next

  There was no doubt in Julia's mind—but then, there rarely was. The wall would have to go. She walked from the tiny parlor into the tiny library that abutted it. Definitely. And when the wall was gone, she would have one generous, airy room, rather than two cramped ones. She nodded firmly and continued her tour, her eyes observing, assessing.

  All the glass would have to be replaced with thermal, and the trim and molding would need to be stripped down to the original walnut. Whoever had painted it blue should have been hanged.

  She said as much into the minirecorder she carried. Her notes were always logged in this manner, and her commentaries were invariably pithy. Julia MacGregor not only had strong feelings, she strongly believed in expressing them. She already had completed and labeled two tapes on the house on Beacon Hill—the house she had decided would be her home. She would make it uniquely hers. Every detail, down to the color of the grout in the first-floor powder room, would be decided upon and supervised by her.

  The contractor and subs would be charmed or bullied—and she could do both—into providing her with exactly what she wanted. She had never been satisfied with anything less.

  Julia would never have considered herself spoiled. She worked for what she wanted. She planned, she executed. And she could, if necessary, hang drywall, nail trim and grout windows. But she believed in hiring experts and professionals and paying them well. She had been known to take advice, particularly when it agreed with her own point of view. And a project, once started, was never left undone.

  She'd learned the value of planning, of working and of finishing, from her parents. Alan MacGregor had served two terms as president, with Shelby Campbell MacGregor beside him as a First Lady who did a great deal more than host parties and greet dignitaries. The women in the MacGregor clan were not, and never had been, reflections of their husbands. A MacGregor woman was her own woman. So was Julia.

  She headed up the gently curving stairs, a woman with rose-petal skin and curling, flame-colored hair. Her eyes were chocolate brown, focused sharply now to catch any minute detail or flaw she might have missed. Her mouth was wide and often mobile, her hands narrow and rarely still. Her curvy body was fueled with an inner energy that never seemed to be depleted.
Only the smitten would have called her beautiful, but even her detractors—and a strong woman who routinely voiced strong opinions had them—acknowledged her unique appeal.

  One of the men she'd dated had called her "the Amazon queen." And though it hadn't been meant as a compliment at the time, the term suited. She was sturdy, self-sufficient and sexy.

  And she was ruthless.

  Tapping a finger on the subtle point of her chin, she studied the bedroom she'd been using for the past month. The delightful Adam fireplace needed to be unblocked. Its having been blocked off was another black mark against the former owners, in Julia's opinion. She could imagine herself curled up in the wonderful teak sleigh bed she had in storage, pillows heaped around her, a pot of jasmine tea, a good book. And a fire crackling away in the hearth.

  It was only late August, and summer still held Boston in a sweaty grip, but the image played for her. And would, she determined, be reality by Thanksgiving.

  The house itself would shine by Christmas, and she would christen it with a huge and glittery New Year's Eve party. Ring in the new, Julia thought, and grinned.

  On cue, the doorbell rang. Mr. Murdoch, she thought, and right on time. She had used his company as her head contractor for nearly six years. This wasn't the first property Julia had purchased, or the first she had rehabbed, or the first she had lived in. Real estate was her passion. And her skill for wheeling deals came naturally, down through the blood.

  Her grandfather had gone from pauper to millionaire on the qualities of a shrewd mind, a sharp eye and a gambler's heart. Of all his children and grandchildren, it was Julia who most closely followed in the big man's footprints. She hurried downstairs, anxious to begin discussing plans and wrangling about fees with the crafty Scotsman. Daniel MacGregor himself had recommended Michael Murdoch and his company to her years before, and Julia blessed him for it. She felt she'd found a kindred spirit in those twinkling blue eyes and capable workingman's hands.

  So she was smiling when she opened the door. And scowling a pulse beat later.

  It wasn't Michael Murdoch, but his son. She considered Cullum Murdoch the only fly in the ointment of her excellent relationship with the contracting company.

  "Where's your father?" she demanded.

  "He's not feeling well." Cullum didn't waste smiles on women who irritated. So his cool green eyes, his full, sculpted mouth, remained sober. "I'm doing the run-through."

  "He's sick?" The concern was instant and sincere, and had her reaching for Cullum's hand. "What's wrong with him? Has he seen a doctor?"

  "It's nothing serious, late-summer cold." But he softened a bit. Her eyes were worried, her affection for his father was palpable. "He just needs to stay in bed and take it easy for a couple days."

  "Oh." They stood where they were, on either side of the threshold, with the morning sun beating down. She released his hand and calculated. She didn't care to work with Cullum, but neither did she care to delay the project. He read her, and dark brows lifted over amused green eyes. "I can stand it if you can, MacGregor." Frowning, Julia studied him. Men who were as handsome as the devil rarely irritated her. And Cullum, with his sharp-boned, sculpted face, certainly qualified. There was the added appeal of the lion's mane of bronze-tipped brown hair, the quick and crooked grin—not that he ever aimed it at her—and the long, lanky body that fit so nicely in denim.

  But irritate her he did, continually. Their personalities crashed and clashed like honed swords on a battlefield. Annoying or not, she thought, he was good at his work. And it was only a run-through.

  "All right, Murdoch, let's get started, then."

  He stepped onto the wide squares of rose-veined tiles in the foyer, gave the staircase a sweeping glance, took a considering look at the ornate plaster-work on the vaulted ceiling.

  "How's the foundation?"

  "Solid as a rock."

  "I'll check it out."

  There, she thought, gritting her teeth. That was just it. The man constantly questioned her judgment, argued with her opinions, sneered at her tastes. She drew in a breath. "I've taken notes," she said, and took minicassettes from the pocket of her trim navy trousers.

  "Yeah, the famous MacGregor tapes." Sarcasm edged his voice as he took them, stuffed them in the back pocket of his jeans.

  "It's more efficient than scribbling notes on paper, and my plans and outlines can't be misconstrued."

  "Yeah, you're in charge."

  "It's my house," she snapped.

  He shot her a bland look. "Who said it wasn't?"

  He moved beyond her, into the small front parlor, and instantly thought that whoever had painted the molding should have been beaten mercilessly. "Cozy."

  "Cramped," she corrected. "I want the right wall taken out. The room beyond is just as cramped, equaling two wasted spaces, in my opinion."

  It was a good move, but she so clearly thought so, there was no need to confirm it—and there was an irresistible desire to challenge it.

  "Old, traditional houses like this don't like structural changes."

  "The wall goes."

  With unhurried, long-legged strides he strolled over, looked it up, looked it down. "Probably screw up this nice random-width pine floor."

  "Then you'll just have to fix it." She walked through the still-empty room, her steps echoing hollowly. "I want the molding stripped down to natural wood, and there's some minor plasterwork you can see for yourself. The stone needs to be repainted on the fireplace, but the mantel is in excellent shape. And over in here…"

  She strode out and into the next room, waiting for him to follow. "The patio door is too small. I want the opening widened, an atrium installed. Walnut, beveled glass, brass hardware."

  He saw the results in his head, approved them, but shrugged. "That's going to mean cutting into the brick."

  "I'm aware of that, Murdoch."

  "It's going to cost you."

  The sneer was in her eyes. "We'll discuss your estimate after you've worked it up. But to continue, naturally, all the walls will need to be repainted or repapered, and the fireplace in here…" She cocked her head, measuring the line and distance from the fireplace in the next room. "I'll want this mantel replaced with one to match the other. And the flue here's been blocked off. It needs to be opened. Thermal glass for all the windows, of course."

  "Of course."

  Ignoring the smirk, she brushed past him and continued. If it had been his father, she would have asked opinions, discussed strategies. They'd have been laughing over something by now, or been on their hands and knees examining the floor molding. She would do none of those things with the son.

  Her voice was as stiff as her spine, Cullum thought. And he wished to God she didn't smell so good. It was distracting, having that warrior-goddess fragrance assault him whenever he got within three feet of her.

  He did his best to keep his distance.

  He considered her a snotty, cold, bossy and arrogant woman. Anything but his type. The fact that he occasionally wondered what she would taste like was, in his opinion, just a reflex, and nothing more.

  They moved through the first floor, room by room.

  It was a great house, he mused, but then, he'd never known Julia MacGregor to buy a loser. She had an eye for buildings; he could respect that. And he could respect the fact that whatever she bought, she tended well.

  But she never shut the hell up, he decided, and she treated him as if he were brain-dead, explaining and outlining every point and change.

  Replacement tiles in the powder room. Yeah, yeah. New hardware for the pedestal sink. Did she think he couldn't see that the current faucet was rusted and clunky? He had eyes, didn't he?

  They spent nearly an hour in the kitchen. Julia wanted a complete redesign there, all of it built around two points—the old brick hearth that she wanted in working order again, and the wall-spanning chestnut breakfront.

  He was pleased to shut down a couple of her ideas as unworkable, and even more pleased to re
place her plans with his own.

  "You've got plenty of room." He stood in the center of the kitchen, on a shiny linoleum floor. "Why do you want to waste it?"

  "That's not—"

  "It's just plain stupid to have the stove and refrigerator that far apart. You want a flow, a traffic pattern. Aesthetics and convenience. It's pretty obvious you don't cook."

  She angled her head. "And in your little world, women whip up hot meals nightly for their weary men."

  "In my little world, people who cook eat better. You can keep your sink under the double windows there. The counter comes around here. You curve it, give it a nice fluid look." His gestures were brisk, economic, those of a man accustomed to being in charge—and being obeyed. "Dishwasher here, stove there, fridge there. Keep the pantry under the back steps. Get rid of the ugly door on it. Now, if I were you—"

  "You're not"

  "I'd run another length of counter out here. A serving and conversation bar. It'd break up the space, really use it. Then you take that summer porch, make it part of the room. Get rid of the wall."

  She winged a brow. "I thought old, traditional houses didn't care for structural changes." Good one, he thought, but shrugged his shoulders. "It's already too late for that. If you're going to figure out how to take out one, you can take out two. You ditch the screens, put in windows, then use that part of the L for a sitting area. I could run a bench under the windows."

  Oh, it was coming together beautifully in her mind. "I saw this terrific old church pew last week."

  "Even better. You'll never use the porch the way it's set up now for anything but junk space. This way you'd bring those gardens inside—not that they don't need work—and add some great light."

  She wanted it, absolutely. "Well, I'll consider it"

  "Fine, and you'll want to get rid of the floor covering."

  "It's brand-new."

  "Odds are it's covering up more random-width pine."

  "Nobody's that stupid."

  He took out a pocketknife, flicked the blade. Those green eyes flashed with challenge. "Bet?" She waffled between wanting him to be right and hating being wrong. "All right, take up a corner. But if you're wrong, you take five percent off your estimate."

  "If I'm right, you do the kitchen my way."

  She nodded. "Deal."

  He walked to the corner closest to the back door, and got down on his knees. It took him less than two minutes. "You're going to be very happy."

  "Just subflooring, huh?" Smug, she walked over, peered down. "Oh." She scrambled down to her hands and knees, thrilled to see the pine boards. "What idiots. Take off some more."

  "Likely it's scratched, scarred and stained." He worked off more linoleum. "So they took the easy route and covered it up." It was like finding buried treasure. Julia had to stop herself from ripping at it with her bare hands. They were hip-to-hip now, shoulder-to-shoulder. The curling cloud of her hair brushed his cheek. The scent of it drew him, and without thinking, he turned his head, inhaled.

  She felt the flutter, the quick answer to it in the pit of her stomach. She straightened so quickly she nearly bashed his nose with her head. "What are you doing?"

  "Nothing." What the hell had gotten into him? was all he could think. Was he completely insane?

  "You were sniffing me."

  "Get a grip. I was breathing. It's just something I do to get through the day." The fact that her pulse was dancing a jig infuriated her. Her mouth was dry, her skin hot. "Well, don't do it around me," she snapped, and got quickly to her feet. "Let's go through the second floor and get this over with."

  "Fine." He closed the blade and shoved the knife back in his pocket, because it was tempting to jab it into his own heart as punishment for his momentary lapse. "And don't worry, MacGregor, I'll make sure I hold my breath."

  "Idiot," she muttered under her own as she stalked from the room. But she wasn't sure which one of them she was referring to. Daniel MacGregor imagined he was puffing on a cigar. Tipped back in the massive leather chair in his massive office in his massive home, he blew imaginary smoke rings at the ceiling while he listened to his good friend Michael Murdoch on the telephone.

  "So the boy bought it."