Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  Malcolm smiled back at the lad with an approval that rose from his heart. The lad had courage and a self-confidence that appealed to him. “In that case, show me the barn.”

  Through Malcolm’s roiling confusion, he burned to discover everything about this boy. He prayed he got the chance. At least his son didn’t seem to hate him. As he stared into that thin, dark face, he noted a curiosity that might even match his own.

  Patrick grabbed a thick coat from a peg near the door and wrapped it around himself. “Come with me.”

  It was nearly dark, but there was enough light for Malcolm to catch Senga and lead her into a barn full of quiet, well-fed animals.

  Patrick lit a couple of lanterns and gestured to an empty stall. “This will do for your horse.”

  “Thank you.”

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he said in admiration, as Malcolm settled the mare.

  “You like horses?”

  “I do. But we’ve got nothing on the farm to match her.”

  Malcolm bit back a gasp. He felt like someone stuck a knife into his heart. He, too, had been a horse-mad lad. This echo of his younger self in his son made him want to weep.

  He needed a few seconds to dislodge the jagged emotion from his throat before he could speak. “The stables at Dun Carron are famous.”

  Patrick reached out to pat Senga’s shoulder. “I’d love to see them.”

  “You will.”

  Patrick stared at him, and Malcolm saw the wonder he himself felt reflected in the boy’s glowing eyes. “I don’t know anything about you. I didn’t even know your name, until Mother told you to get out of the house.”

  That knife in Malcolm’s heart twisted, piercing him with a shaft of new agony. What on earth happened here? Did Rhona hate him so much that she couldn’t bear to mention his name? That made no sense.

  He hoped to God that he had the opportunity to find out what lay behind her hostility. She must know that he’d been another victim of those events eighteen years ago. They’d destroyed his life. Yet everything indicated that his beloved saw him as more sinner than sinned against.

  “I’ve looked for you your whole life, Patrick.” He spoke slowly and carefully. He didn’t want any misunderstandings between him and his son. “Whatever your mother may say about me, I never gave up the hope of meeting you one day.”

  Patrick regarded him with troubled black eyes. “I’ve got a lifetime of questions to ask you. I feel like I already know you. Yet you’re a stranger.”

  Malcolm smiled at the son he’d longed to find for so long. When he first saw the boy, the resemblance had floored him, but now he started to count differences. Patrick’s face was gentler than his, and there was a hint of Rhona’s beauty in the arch of his brows and the flare of his nostrils. And something purely himself in the benevolent intelligence shining in the dark eyes. “It’s dashed awkward, isn’t it?”

  Patrick smiled back with a hint of relief, now he heard that Malcolm understood his confusion. “Yes, it is.”

  Only at that moment did Malcolm recognize something that had tugged at the edges of his awareness since Patrick had opened the door to him. His son had an English accent. The mystery deepened.

  Patrick went on. “I want to talk to you for hours. I’ve got a thousand things I’d love to know. But if I stay out too long tonight, Mother will guess that I didn’t send you on your way.” He pointed toward a closed door at the end of the aisle running between the stalls. “There’s a camp bed in there. I’ll try and sneak you out some dinner if I can. I’m sorry I can’t offer you warmer hospitality.”

  Malcolm shook his head, still feeling as if he struggled to keep his balance on shifting sands. “A lifetime of searching has come to an end. That’s enough to make this a red-letter day. If I go to bed without any supper, I’ll live.”

  Patrick smiled again. He seemed to be a contented soul. Malcolm could only be grateful. In his darker moments, he’d imagined his son suffering an encyclopedia of horrors without a father to protect him.

  “Mother will come round.”

  Given his earlier reception and Malcolm’s memory of the younger Rhona’s stubbornness, he wasn’t so sure about that, but he admired Patrick’s optimism. He clapped him on the shoulder, all too aware that this was the first time he’d ever touched his almost-grown son. The urge to hug the boy close was nigh on overwhelming, but he didn’t yet have that right.

  By God, he’d have the right before next Christmas, whatever Rhona thought about the matter.

  “You’d better go,” he said gruffly. “We’ll talk tomorrow, even if we have to do it at the inn.”

  “Yes, we will.” Patrick sent him a searching look that made him look older than his seventeen years. He held out a steady hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Father.”

  When Malcolm grasped Patrick’s hand, a stinging mist obscured his vision. He had to blink and clear his throat again before he spoke. “Aye, son, it’s splendid to meet you, too.”

  Chapter 2

  “My softhearted son has been at it again,” a toneless feminine voice said from the entrance to the stall. “Softhearted, not to mention softheaded.”

  Now Malcolm had accepted that Rhona was alive, her presence shouldn’t punch him in the belly with that same visceral impact. But the sound of her voice still made his heart leap high to lodge in his throat.

  Perhaps his memory played tricks, but it was lower and huskier than the voice that had haunted his dreams. Little trace of her Scottish accent remained.

  “Rhona…” He looked up from where he groomed a fine bay colt. He’d rubbed Senga down and given her oats and water, then decided to see what he could do for the other half dozen horses in the barn.

  “Don’t bother pretending that Patrick didn’t ask you to stay.” She wore a thick coat, and her head was wrapped in a plaid shawl. At her side, she carried a lidded basket.

  “Don’t take it out on him.” He tried a placatory smile. It was a waste of time. She didn’t smile back. “He was worried about me making it through the snow.”

  Fine green eyes flashed with outrage. “Don’t you dare to presume to explain my son’s behavior to me. Five minutes in his company doesn’t offer you any special insight.”

  With a pang, Malcolm noticed the way she emphasized the “my” in “my son.” He already knew he had a long way to go with her before she accepted that he had any role in her life or Patrick’s. She was even further from viewing him as a welcome presence.

  Sighing and wondering how he could be both so elated and so despairing at the same time, Malcolm set the currycomb on a shelf. The bay whickered uneasily and shifted from hoof to hoof, as it sensed the troubled currents flowing between the two humans.

  Malcolm stepped away from the colt and closer to the woman he’d last seen eighteen years ago. He kept his voice even and soothing, the way he’d talk to a skittish horse. “I have no intention of driving a wedge between you and Patrick.”

  Dislike hardened her gaze, but even after all this time, he knew her well enough to perceive the apprehension lurking beneath her bristling hostility. “You couldn’t do that if you tried.”

  He spread his hands in a gesture that he hoped indicated he meant peace. “Rhona, I’m really not here to cause trouble. Trust me.”

  Her growl told him what she thought of that suggestion. He cursed himself. Trust was the wrong thing to mention, although he still didn’t know what he’d done to earn such implacable hatred.

  Once she’d adored him, just as he’d adored her. He reminded himself that was half a lifetime ago.

  “Too late for that,” she snapped.

  A grief so powerful that it verged on agony flooded him. Too late to see Patrick grow up. Too late to share nearly twenty years of troubles and joys with the woman he loved. Perhaps even too late to salvage anything at all from the catastrophe of so long ago.

  But by heaven, he had to try. The first thing he needed to do was convince Rhona he wasn’t some monster poi
sed to destroy her life, even if tonight wasn’t the best time to get her to listen to him.

  For most of his adult life, he’d survived on the frailest strand of hope. Surely after today, he could cling to hope a little longer. Against all the odds, he’d found his son. Even more miraculous, he’d found his lost love alive and prospering. Compared to where he’d been this morning, he had cause for optimism, even if Rhona was glowering at him the way she’d glower at an adder slithering across her path.

  “Are you here to insist I go to the inn?” Devil take it, he was reluctant to go. After all the lonely years, some superstitious fear insisted that now he’d found her, he must never leave her again. Or else she might disappear from his life the way she had before. But this time, he’d never find her again, no matter how hard he searched. “If you are, I’ll go, but it’s a reprieve not a rescue. I’ll be back tomorrow. You won’t chase me off so easily.”

  That cold gaze didn’t soften. “Better you go back to Dun Carron. There’s nothing for you here.”

  How wrong she was. This isolated farm held his entire world. He’d felt half-dead during these years without her. Even with Rhona hating him, he felt more alive at this moment than he had at any time since they’d parted.

  Be careful, Malcolm. You know nothing of her circumstances. Don’t start building castles in the air.

  It was too late. As a boy, he’d given her his heart. That heart was still hers, despite time and separation and sorrow. That heart wouldn’t relinquish the hope of her until it stopped beating altogether.

  Malcolm said none of this, because even the world’s stupidest man could see that she was a million miles away from being ready to hear it. Perhaps she’d never be ready to hear it. But he had to try to establish a truce, and be damned if he was going to let her seething resentment banish him before he had a chance to know his son.

  “Now I’ve found you, I’m not giving up.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him as if he was her enemy. “I’ll show you the door.”

  “You may have forgotten, Rhona, but I’m a patient man and a determined one.” Regret stabbed him, along with more puzzlement. “A pout and a sulky look won’t frighten me off when I want something.”

  He saw her fear bubble closer to the surface. “You won’t take Patrick away from me.”

  Dear God. He was horrified that she could imagine he meant her any harm. He made another calming gesture and kept his voice steady. “Don’t be a henwit, lassie. I don’t want to take him away from you, but he has a right to know his father.”

  “I’ll fight you.”

  He heaved another sigh, heavier this time. “You don’t have to.” He gentled his voice. “This has been a shock. For the three of us. You’re in no frame of mind to listen to me right now, so I’ll go. But I’ll come back tomorrow, after we’ve all had a chance to reflect on what’s happened. You and I can talk then.”

  “You might have made it to the inn an hour ago. You wouldn’t get five yards now.” Displeasure flattened her lips. “I’m not going to spend Christmas Day digging your stiff and frozen corpse out of a snowy ditch. You’ve caused me enough trouble already.”

  He gave a grunt of admiring laughter. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him. She’d been a termagant as a girl when her temper flared. She still burned bright as a beacon. If he’d ever feared that life had defeated fiery Rhona Macleod, he knew better now. He was thankful for that, even if he wished she hadn’t chosen him as her target. “And I intend to cause you more.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Thank you for offering me your hospitality.” He ignored the disdainful arch of her eyebrows, although they both knew that calling her grudging cooperation hospitality was an exaggeration.

  Her sigh indicated endless annoyance, then her eyes sharpened on him. “What on earth are you doing, playing the stablehand?”

  He leaned against the side of the stall. The way she vibrated with hostility told him to keep his distance. “I had a lot to think about. I couldn’t settle down, so I decided to be useful.”

  After meeting his son and discovering Rhona was alive, his head and heart had been in a ferment. Despite his exhaustion, he was too keyed up to sit still. He felt like he must burst out of his skin, unless he found some way to use up his energy. Not to mention that hard work helped him to ignore his rumbling stomach. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Rhona stepped back and waved toward two hay bales in the aisle. “I might have rocks in my head, but I brought you some supper.” She must have seen his surprise, because she continued in a stony tone. “It’s no gesture of reconciliation, so don’t imagine it is.”

  “I wouldn’t presume,” he said, echoing her earlier accusation.

  Still looking like she might explode at any moment, she waited for him to sit down, then passed him the basket. He’d been too focused on Rhona and the emotions raging between them to notice that it emitted a delicious aroma. When he lifted the lid, he found a bowl of rich beef stew, a couple of slices of buttered bread, and a flask that he guessed contained ale. “This is a feast indeed. Thank you.”

  “Eat it before it gets cold.”

  Malcolm took the ungracious invitation at face value. He spread the white napkin over his knee, lifted the plate and a fork and began to eat. “This is good.”

  It was. It would have been even better if she’d invited him to eat at a table inside the house, instead of in the barn. But something in Rhona’s flinty manner told him that the barn was as close as she meant to let him get to her tonight.

  He should be grateful she offered him even that much. Right now, he could be a couple of miles away at the inn, having battled his way there through a snowstorm.

  After a little while, she unbuttoned her coat and perched on the bale opposite him to watch him eat. Her forbidding expression didn’t encourage questions. Since they’d come so close to quarrelling, she’d banked her hostility, but it still simmered close to the surface.

  Nonetheless Malcolm wasn’t altogether dissatisfied with the way things were going. He was still here. She’d deigned to feed him. However much, however inexplicably, she might hate him, he was in a better place than he’d been in two hours ago.

  She slid the shawl away from her head. In the golden lamplight, her extraordinary beauty pierced him like an arrow. Under the heavy coat, she was dressed in a high-collared plaid dress in reds and blues. With her vibrant hair and pale skin, she’d always favored vivid colours. That hadn’t changed either, he was pleased to note. She’d been a breathtakingly pretty girl, but the years had refined that prettiness to a pure delicacy that enthralled him.

  He’d spent years dreaming of her and mourning her loss. It seemed unbelievable that she was here with him tonight. To all appearances, whole and unharmed.

  Ignoring her glare, he took the time to study the changes in her. Her face had thinned, and her high, slanted cheekbones lent her features a tinge of the exotic. Fine, winged eyebrows, darker than her hair, arched over large eyes of a peridot green he’d never seen on anyone else. A straight, rather haughty nose. A pointed chin. A pink mouth that had once been soft and full and passionate. Now that mouth was stern and unsmiling.

  She’d been a sparkling girl. That vivacity was one of the things that made him fall in love with her. This austere, spectacular woman who stared back at him as if she loathed him didn’t sparkle. Instead she had the icy glitter of a perfect diamond.

  Malcolm could already see that maturity lent her a strength that had only been a promise in her younger self. He burned to discover what had made her into the woman she was today. Curiosity ate at him like acid, but he reminded himself to be patient. In time, he’d find everything out.

  He was using the bread to mop up the last of the gravy when she spoke again, her voice uncompromising. “What do you want, Malcolm?”

  He looked up with a frown. “I wanted to find my son.”

  “Why?” The question was as deadly as a bullet.

/>   Baffled, he frowned. “Because he’s my son.”

  “That’s a surprise. You weren’t so eager to claim him when I told you I was pregnant.”

  Every word she spoke made less sense than the last. “What do you mean? I asked you to marry me.”

  “Then you set your father and a pack of the castle’s brawniest servants on me, with an offer to pay me to go away. Your father was adamant that Dun Carron’s heir could look higher for his lady than a slut of a crofter’s daughter. A slut who already carried a bastard in her belly.” Old bitterness weighted her voice.

  Malcolm winced, even as he recognized the tone. Since he’d lost her, he’d lived with bitterness every second. It had a habit of souring and distorting even the slightest hint of good. “You can’t believe that I had anything to do with that,” he said, appalled.

  He’d known what had happened to Rhona that day. His father had been proud of what he’d done. He hadn’t hesitated to crow to his son about how he’d banished the presumptuous tart with ambitions to marry above herself.

  Malcolm found Rhona’s dismissive shrug unconvincing. “You weren’t there to offer any argument otherwise.”

  With shaking hands, he set his empty bowl aside. He’d enjoyed his dinner, but now the hearty food formed a rancid, uncomfortable lump in his stomach. “I wasn’t there, because my father had chained me in the dungeons.”

  A silence crashed down. Her mouth dropped open with astonishment. Then doubt shadowed her remarkable eyes. “That doesn’t sound likely. It’s the nineteenth century, not the twelfth. And your parents doted on you. If they hadn’t held such high hopes for you, they wouldn’t have been so furious that you’d sullied the Innes lineage by consorting with a humble creature like Rhona Macleod.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s true.” His voice was hard. As hard as hers. Ridiculous so long afterward to feel stinging hurt, but hurt he felt. Although if Rhona had believed in his perfidy all these years, it explained her anger. “But even more shocking to me is that after everything we were to each other, after all the promises we made, you’d believe that I’d wrong you like that.”