by Pamela Clare
Killy and Joseph washed and joined them at the table, each holding one of Amalie’s twins, while Amalie lit the Advent candles and the candle that sat on the window sill, its golden light flickering against the silver of the frost-coated panes.
"May all travelers find shelter tonight," she said. "And may God guide our husbands safely home."
She joined the others at the supper table, a loud bellow perceptible over the crackling of the fire and the happy chatter of children. She slid her hand into Sarah’s and Joseph’s, and they bowed their heads.
It normally fell to Iain, as head of the family, to say grace. With all of the brothers away, Annie took his place. She had just spoken the first words of blessing when Artair and Beatan leaped up from their place by the hearth, tails wagging, and began to bark and scratch at the door.
From outside, they heard it. "Hallo in the house!"
Iain.
Sarah felt a surge of relief as the door opened and Iain entered.
A broad grin on his face, he tossed something to Killy — a coin purse. "There are your wages, old man—minus one schilling six. The matter is settled. The men are gettin’ their pay."
Then Iain stepped inside, making way for three others — Connor, Morgan and…
"Hildie?" Killy gaped at the shape that filled the doorway.
Almost as tall as the men, the woman stood there in a great overcoat, her cheeks red from the cold, mittens on her hands, her hems and boots caked with snow.
Killy turned to Iain, who had taken off his tumpline pack and bearskin coat and was hanging it on its peg. "Why in God’s name did you drag the poor woman all the way out here in this storm?"
Iain, his jaw dark with many days’ growth of beard, chuckled. "She insisted she come wi’ us and wouldna hear otherwise."
Morgan drew his tumpline pack over his shoulders, handing it to Amalie, who had hurried forward to help him. "Miss Janssen kept abreast of us the entire way, never flaggin’, never once utterin’ a complaint."
"You’d be right proud of her, so you would." Connor grinned, his gaze meeting Sarah’s as he closed the door and brought down the bar, shutting out the night and cold.
And she could see he was as relieved to be home as she was to have him home. She hurried over to him, began to help him out of his pack and coat.
Killy rounded the table and walked over to Miss Janssen, who pushed the woolen hat from her head, golden hair spilling around her red cheeks. "Why would you do such a daft thing? Are you tryin’ to catch your death out in this?"
Miss Janssen brushed the hair from her face. "Is it true what they say — that you want to marry me but are afraid to ask?"
The room fell silent apart from the happy babble of babies.
Killy’s face turned a shade of red Sarah had never seen before. He stared up at Miss Janssen through narrowed eyes. "Aye, it is."
Miss Janssen looked surprised. Had she come all this way in hopes that Killy wanted to marry her? What had she planned to do if he’d said no? Would she have turned on her heels and walked all the long way back to Albany alone?
Miss Janssen gave a nod, drew in a breath, seemed to steel herself. "You’re not to lie about in idleness, nor will I permit you to drink my profits. The alehouse will still belong to me. As long as you live under my roof, you’ll not show me disrespect, nor will you suffer any other man to put his hands on me. If there are children, you’ll be a decent father to them for as long as you live."
Killy glared up at her. "Those are your terms?"
She hesitated for a moment, then her chin went up. "Ja. What say you?"
A wide grin broke out on Killy’s face. "I accept."
"Then we’ll be wed in a binding manner on New Year’s Eve and remarried in the Dutch church when the snows allow us to return safely to Albany."
"The New Year is a fortuitous time for a weddin’." Killy’s grin faded. "But who is watchin’ over the alehouse while you’re out here?"
"I left Bram, my brother, to run things. I’ve served ale every day of my life since I was ten years old. If I want to leave for a few days to take a husband, I will."
Killy chuckled, glancing over at Annie. "I told you she was fierce."
Hildie drew something from inside her coat and held it up for Killy to see. It was a sprig of mistletoe.
Killy stared at it for a moment, then chuckled. "You wild woman."
He rose onto his tiptoes, drew her head down, and kissed her hard upon the lips, drawing cheers and laughter — and putting a blush in Hildie’s cheeks.
Through a mist of tears, Sarah looked up into Connor’s eyes, felt his arm slide around her waist, and saw that he was as happy for Killy as she.
As laughter died there came a terrible bellowing from the barn.
Sarah had forgotten about the bull.
"What on God’s earth is that?" Iain asked, picking up the musket he’d just set aside. "It sounds like a… "
"It’s a bull, brother." Joseph grinned. "Sarah has some Christmas gifts for you."
Connor and his brothers looked at Sarah, astonishment on their faces.
Another bellow. A crashing sound. Splintering wood.
Sarah looked up at her husband. "Merry Christmas."
* * *
Hildie was getting married.
She could scarce believe it, the strangeness of it leaving her almost numb as Killy helped her out of her wet boots, pack, and coat.
He slipped his hand through hers and led her to a chair by the fire, his fingers warm. "You’re shakin’ like a leaf, Hildie sweet. Rest here while Annie makes you a hot cup of tea. I’ll be back inside before you can miss me."
Hildie looked into the eyes of the man she had just agreed to marry and saw genuine concern. "Th-thank you."
She wasn’t accustomed to tenderness from men.
Killy and the other men bundled up and headed out to the barn to see the bull, leaving Hildie alone with the MacKinnon brothers’ wives. All were beautiful women, much younger than Hildie, feminine and delicate. Compared to them, she was overly tall, ungainly, and big of bone — a pelican among swans.
One with fair hair and green eyes stepped forward and clasped Hildie’s hand, a gracious smile on her pretty face. "I’m Annie, Iain’s wife. Welcome to our home. I’ll get you a pair of warm, dry socks and make you that cup of tea."
"Many thanks."
So this was Annie MacKinnon. Hildie had heard of her. All the news worth knowing made its way to the alehouse in time. It was said that Annie MacKinnon had been born a noble lady but had married Iain MacKinnon for love. Hildie was tempted to ask if this was true, but knew that to do so on so short an acquaintance would be unforgivably rude.
"The walk was long," she said instead.
Of course the walk was long, Hildie! What a foolish thing to say!
"Aye, ’tis a long journey when the sun is shinin’." Annie set the teakettle on the hob. "I dinnae think I’d have made it."
"I am Amalie — Morgan’s wife." A dark-haired woman stepped forward, her arms filled with two wriggling babies so alike in age and appearance that they could only be twins. She spoke with a French accent, but her features told Hildie that she was of mixed heritage — perhaps Indian and French. "You must be chilled to the very bone."
Hildie’s toes ached, her fingers, too. "Ja. It was very cold."
Then Hildie remembered that Morgan MacKinnon had been thrown out of the Rangers for marrying the daughter of a French officer. Her gaze was drawn back to the babies. She’d never spent much time in the company of other women or with children, for that matter, her entire life spent meeting the needs of hungry men.
"These are our twins, Lachlan and Connor Joseph." Amalie set the babies on the floor, where they crawled about and babbled to one another. She took a pair of knitted socks from Annie, knelt down, and replaced Hildie’s sodden socks with the dry ones, hanging the wet ones to dry.
Hildie wiggled her tows. "Thank you."
"Would you like some of Annie�
�s shortbread?" The third woman wrapped a warm shawl around Hildie’s shoulders, then presented her with a tray of small cakes. "I am Sarah MacKinnon, Connor’s wife."
Hildie was surprised at Sarah’s refined tone and the crispness of her English. It was not the English spoken by frontiersmen and their families, nor even that of the British officers who’d stayed at the tavern. It was refined, like that of…
Hildie felt her pulse quicken as she remembered what she’d heard this past summer, whispers in corners about Brigadier General Wentworth’s niece, whose name was Sarah. Some said Connor MacKinnon had seduced her and gotten her with child not long before she’d been killed by Indians. But one redcoat had insisted that Lady Sarah hadn’t been killed at all, swearing he’d seen her at Fort Ticonderoga with Connor MacKinnon after the battle, safe and very much alive. The other soldiers had laughed at him, but now Hildie knew he’d spoken the truth.
She found herself smiling at this happy realization — and at the thought that a high-born British lady was offering her something to eat rather than the reverse. "You are all very kind to welcome me into your home on Christmas Eve."
Annie smiled, setting a place for Hildie at the table. "You’re to be Killy’s bride, and he is as kin to us. That makes you kin, too."
Hildie bit into the little cake, but was so taken aback by Annie’s kind words that it took her a moment to notice the taste. It was both buttery and sweet. She might not know anything about babies, but Hildie knew a great deal about food. "This is good! What do you call it?"
"Shortbread," Sarah answered. "Annie makes it. Have another."
Hildie did. "You must teach me the recipe — that is, if you are willing."
"I’d be most happy to share it." Annie gave her a warm smile. "But tell me Hildie, did you truly walk this entire distance through deep snows on Christmas Eve just to see whether Killy wanted to marry you?"
"Ja." Hildie wiggled her toes again, her feet finally starting to warm. "No man has ever said he wanted to marry me before."
And for a moment, Hildie felt utterly exposed, her answer revealing too much about her to women whose beauty and youth left them unable to understand the woes and loneliness of an aging spinster.
But to her surprise, they smiled.
Amalie caught up one of the twins who was crawling too near the hearth. "I think it is very romantic."
"As do I." Sarah held out the tray of shortbread, offering Hildie another. "But what would you have done if he’d said ‘no’?"
Hildie was spared having to come up with an answer when there came a hiss, something boiling over onto hot hearthstones. "Supper will be burnt by the time the men return if we don’t pull it from the fire. Here, let me help."
She stood, set the shawl carefully aside, and went to work.
CHAPTER 8
"Then the bull knocked the rod from Farmer Fairley’s hand, and I feared the beast would gore him. But Amalie stepped forward and struck it between the eyes, so she did. It hushed and followed her to the paddock, docile as a lamb."
Iain laughed along with everyone else, listening to Killy tell the story of Farmer Fairley and his arrival with the bull. Iain’s belly was full, their Christmas Eve feast one of the best he could remember, a few crumbs all that remained of Annie’s shortbread and the three apple pies.
"I threatened to turn him into a bullock and put him in my stew pot," Amalie said, her cheeks flushed from laughter.
"I am sorry for the trouble it caused you all," Sarah said, regret on her face.
"Dinnae fash yourself, lass." Connor reached over, rested a reassuring hand atop hers. "No one was hurt."
"All has ended well, little sister," Joseph said in a soothing tone, his affection for Sarah clear. "Do not trouble yourself."
"I thank you for your generosity, Sarah," Iain said. "In truth, I’ve never seen an animal as fine as that one. With the calves he sires and the coin he brings us in stud fees, the farm shall prosper as it never has afore."
Sarah smiled. "I’m glad."
Dandling one of his twins upon his knee, Morgan turned to Connor and suggested they get the old scythe and plow repaired by a smithy so they could finish the planting and harvesting with twice the speed.
And it struck Iain as it never had before. The war was behind them. He and his brothers had, at long last, settled their differences with Wentworth. God willing, only peace lay ahead.
A sense of relief rolled through him, warm and precious.
There’d been a time when he’d despaired of living to see a winter’s night such as this one, a time when he’d been certain that he would die in battle with his brothers beside him, the MacKinnon farm abandoned, all trace of their family lost. But now the fighting was done, and his brothers were here with him. They were husbands now and fathers to a new generation of MacKinnons that would grow up on this land, surrounded by plenty and protected by the peace that their fathers had fought so hard to win.
He let his gaze travel around the room. Annie, holding sleepy Mara in her lap. Iain Cameron playing with Artair and Beatan near the hearth. Amalie, laughing and jesting with Killy about the bull, Lachlan in her arms. Sarah, nursing little William, while Connor sat close beside her. Killy trading glances with the wealthy woman who was about to become his bride. Hildie, looking bemused but happy, too. Morgan, with Connor Joseph on his knee.
Joseph leaned closer, speaking for Iain’s ears alone. "The Shining Spirit has been good to you, brother."
Sometimes it seemed to Iain that Joseph could read his mind.
"Aye, God has blessed us. There was a time when I’d no’ have been able to imagine such a night as tonight. But what of you, brother? When will you take a wife and father children? Is there no Mahican lass who can win your heart?"
Joseph narrowed his eyes. "You sound like my grannies."
Iain laughed, then stood, mug of ale in hand.
The room fell silent.
He lifted his mug. "Here’s to the women for a wonderful Christmas Eve feast, to Killy and Hildie on the occasion of their betrothal, to Sarah for her generosity in bestowing such gifts upon her family — and to the memory of those who gave their lives for the peace we enjoy this Christmastide."
Morgan, Connor, Killy and Joseph stood, raised their tankards, and drank.
Iain looked down at his newest sister-by-marriage. "Sarah, ’tis time for some carols. Would you like to play for us?"
Sarah’s face lit up as Iain had known it would. "I should be honored."
* * *
"Adeste fideles laeti triumphantes/Venite, venite in Bethlehem."
Amalie did her best to sing along. She willed herself to seem as cheerful as the others as they sang chants de Noël — what the others called Christmas carols — in Scottish Gaelic, French, English, and Latin to the accompaniment of Sarah’s beautiful harpsichord. Children played at their feet or slept on the thick bearskin rug that stretched out near Iain and Annie’s sitting-room hearth.
Amalie was grateful that the men were safely home and happy that they’d made it back in time for Christmas Eve supper. It had been a fun evening, though Amalie’s thoughts had never strayed far from the argument she’d had with Morgan before he’d left for Albany.
He’d claimed she did not understand, but she did. He was afraid she would die in childbed, and so he gave her only part of himself. She could not deny that she still found pleasure with him, but that pleasure was incomplete. She missed the feel of his weight upon her, his deep thrusts inside her, the joy of being possessed wholly by him — and possessing him in return.
In truth, it was he who did not understand.
Dared she hope that he’d changed his mind on the long journey?
"Venite adoremus/Venite adoremus/Venite adoremus/Dominum."
The song came to an end, and Amalie clapped with the others. The sound roused little Connor Joseph from his sleep. He whimpered, fussed. Amalie went to him, lifted her son into her arms, his twin, Lachlan, still asleep, thumb in his mouth.
She willed a smile onto her face and sat in the chair that he offered her, fighting not to cry when he kissed her hair, her emotions at an edge. "Merci."
They sang a few more carols, then Iain walked to the fireplace and drew from the mantel the heavy, leather-bound family Bible. Apart from Connor’s whimpers, the room fell quiet as Iain opened the thick book to a page marked with a red ribbon and began to read, his deep voice seeming to fill the room.
