by Pamela Clare
"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. This taxin’ was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be taxed wi’ Mary his espoused wife, bein’ great wi’ child.
"While they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in swaddlin’ clothes and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn."
As Iain read about the angels and shepherds, Amalie thought of a young virgin, unmarried and most unexpectedly with child, her betrothed shocked to find her thus, but compelled by a dream and his own compassion to remain true to her. She thought of blameless Mary, great with child, traveling to Bethlehem on a donkey, the pangs of childbirth coming upon her. She thought of a young mother giving birth to her first child in the chill of a stable with only straw for birthing linens.
If Joseph could be a husband to Mary through such hardship and uncertainty, why could Morgan not be a true husband to Amalie?
She felt something wet on her face — tears — and hastily wiped them away.
* * *
Connor walked up the stairs to the room he shared with Sarah. He would be glad when their cabin was finished this spring. Not that living under Iain’s roof was a hardship, but a man with a wife had a certain need for privacy. Love play was so much more robust and free when one didn’t have to worry about being overheard.
He found Sarah combing her long, honey-brown hair, the baby fast asleep in his cradle, soft furs tucked snugly around him. The washtub sat before the fire, filled with warm water, his shaving soap and razor beside it — another act of kindness from his wife. "We’ve got Cathach settled for the night. He’ll no’ be breakin’ down his stall."
"Is that what you’ve named him?" Sarah turned to look at Connor, the brush still sliding through her hair. "What does it mean?"
"It means ‘fighter.’"
She laughed at that. "That is fitting. I hope the damage he wrought is not too difficult to repair."
Connor began to undress. "We’ll need a new trough and a few beams to repair the stall, but dinnae fash yourself. All will soon be set to rights."
He sank into the warm water with a sigh, the heat soothing away the lingering chill. He washed himself, trying to find a way to tell her about Wentworth. All they’d told the others was that Haviland had overlooked the Rangers and that the matter had been resolved. Connor and his brothers had agreed that Sarah should be the first to hear the news of Wentworth — and that she should get the news in private, for it was certain to distress her. Although he was tempted to wait till after the New Year to tell her so as not to mar these happy days with sadness, he knew she would see a truth left untold as a lie, and he would do nothing to make her think her trust in him was misplaced.
Sarah set her brush aside and walked over to him, taking the washcloth from his hand to wash his back. "Amalie was crying tonight."
"Aye, I saw." He hoped Morgan had noticed, too. "She and Morgan must find their way through this. There is naugh’ we can do for them."
He thought of the mistletoe he’d hung over Morgan and Amalie’s bed. It had worked for Killy and Miss Janssen. He prayed its magic would help his stubborn fool of a brother make peace with Amalie.
They spoke of little things while Sarah washed his hair and shaved his jaw, her touch soothing, the joys of being bathed by a wife high on Connor’s list of reasons he loved being a married man. He waited until he’d dried off and Sarah had drawn back the bed covers to tell her.
"We saw Wentworth."
She sat on the bed, facing Connor, hands clasped tightly in her lap. "How was my uncle?"
Connor told her the story, leaving out only the details of Wentworth’s appearance. "Och, you should have seen Haviland’s face when Cooke led him out of the room!"
Sarah smiled, but it was a sad smile. "I am glad he was able to come to your aid — and I’m glad Captain Cooke is with him. Did you give him my letter?"
"Aye, I gave him the letter. He didna read it while we were there, but tucked it inside his waistcoat."
"Did…did he tell you why he refused to see me that night?"
Connor sat beside her and took her hands, knowing the moment had come. "Sarah, he didna come inside because he didna wish you to see him."
"What are you telling me?"
He could find no way to blunt the edge of his next words. "They cut off his right ear and then burned the wound, likely to staunch the bleedin’. His face is unscathed, but his neck and the side of his head…"
Sarah’s eyes closed, tears streaming from beneath her lashes, her voice an anguished whisper. "Uncle William!"
Connor drew her into his arms and held her, offering her what comfort he could. He’d known this would be hard for her. "The wounds had festered, and he was quite sick wi’ fever. Morgan gave him a pot of our salve, but he wouldna suffer us to tend him, nor would he make the journey here where Annie could care for him. He said he’d already made his farewells and that he wanted you to remember him as he was. And, Sarah, he asked me to tell you he loves you."
She drew back, looked up at him, surprise on her face, tears staining her cheeks. "Uncle William said that?"
Connor wiped her tears away with his thumbs. "Aye, he did. He also bade me take good care of you, and I swore that I would."
There was more, but Connor waited, letting her take this in.
"He does not blame me?"
Connor feared she still saw it this way, for the war party that had attacked them and captured Wentworth had come for her. Only Wentworth’s sacrifice, made at the last moment, had spared Sarah. ’Twas one of the bravest things Connor had seen any man do, let alone a wee English lairdling.
Connor squeezed Sarah’s hands, looked into her eyes. "None of that was your doin’, Sarah. He doesna blame you, nor will I suffer you to blame yourself. Your uncle made a warrior’s choice. He paid the price for your safety willingly, and he bears the scars well. Be proud of him, lass."
Connor watched Sarah struggle with her emotions, saw grief give way to something bittersweet.
"I am proud of him." She gave Connor a quavering smile. "But I shall miss him."
"As he shall miss you, I’m certain." But there was more. "We made peace wi’ him, Sarah. He didna offer his apology, nor did we forgi’ him. But we shook hands and agreed to set the past behind us."
Astonishment lit her face — and with it joy. "Oh, Connor! Is this true?"
He chuckled. "Aye, lass."
Then Connor told her all that had been spoken at the end. "Iain turned as we left and said, ‘Merry Christmas, Your Immensity.’ To tell the truth, I think he liked us callin’ him by those names."
There were tears on Sarah’s face again, but there was also happiness. "To know there is no longer hatred between you — ’tis the greatest Christmas gift I could imagine."
Connor hoped that wasn’t true.
He crossed the room, opened the chest that held his belongings, and drew out the little wooden box that held her wedding band. She needed a bit of solace now, and he much preferred to give this to her in private. "Perhaps this gift will find favor in your heart, too."
Smiling, she took the little box and opened it, her eyes going wide when she saw the gold ring inside. "Oh, Connor!"
"I’m sorry I couldna gi’ you a ring when we were wed." There’d been no time. "I hope you’ll find this pleasin’."
She lifted it out of the box, held it in her upturned palm. "It is beautiful."
He knew that she’d grown up wearing jewels that would have put this simple ring to shame, but it touched him that she seemed to like it. "There are words engraved inside."
She lifted the ring, tilted it toward the
firelight. "I cannot read them. Is that Gaelic? What do they say?"
"Le mo ghràdh mi agus leum mo ghràdh. It means ‘I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.’" He took the ring from her and slid it onto her finger. "I dinnae ken why God saw fit to bring the two of us together. I ken only that I love you and will love you until time itself is at an end. Merry Christmas, princess."
She looked down at the ring, then up at him, cupping his jaw with her palm and smiling through fresh tears. "Merry Christmas."
CHAPTER 9
Annie settled Miss Janssen on a pallet before the hearth in the sitting room, while Joseph and Killy carried their gear next door to Morgan and Amalie’s house, where they would bide the night. Then, exhausted but satisfied, she walked to the bedroom, where she found Iain building up the fire, still naked and damp from his bath.
He looked up when Annie entered. "How is Miss Janssen?"
"She’s probably already sleepin’. The poor woman was exhausted."
"I’d never have believed she walked this entire way through deep snows had I not seen it myself. The woman was determined to have a husband, so she was."
"I am happy for her — and Killy, too." Annie began to untie her apron, but Iain’s hands took over the task, helping her to undress down to her shift.
"We saw Wentworth," he said.
Annie sat beside him on the bed and listened as he recounted the full story of their days in Albany. When he finished, she swallowed the lump in her throat. "You made peace wi’ him?"
Nothing would have surprised her more.
"Aye, we did."
"I hate to think of him feverish and sufferin’ alone."
"’Twas of his choosin’. But if I am any judge of Cooke, he’ll make certain Wentworth uses the salve."
"I hope so. I wouldna wish for Lord William to perish. For all the wrongs he has done us, there is good inside him."
"Aye," Iain agreed. "But I dinnae wish to be talkin’ about Wentworth now."
Iain leaned down, took Annie’s mouth in a slow, simmering kiss, one big hand sliding up her thigh, pushing the cloth of her shift out of the way.
Annie’s blood began to heat, knowledge of the pleasure Iain could bring her filling her with anticipation. "What do you wish to talk about?"
Iain glanced upward toward the ceiling, his lips curving in a grin.
Annie followed his gaze and saw mistletoe hanging above their bed. What a sweet thing for him to have done! She met his gaze, saw naked desire in his eyes.
He drew her down on the bed beside him. "I dinnae wish to be talkin’ at all."
* * *
Morgan got Killy and Joseph settled and built up the fires, while Amalie nursed little Lachlan and Connor to sleep and set a meal on the table for the Virgin. He was determined to make peace with his wife tonight, one way or another. He’d seen her tears, had wondered whether it was the tale of the first Christmas that had moved her — or whether her tears were borne of sorrow.
The nagging feeling in his heart told him it was the latter.
Aye, he’d been gone most of a week, but his mind had never wandered far from the troubles that divided them. It stood to reason that their problems had preyed on Amalie’s mind as well.
Having laid out the meal, she picked up a brass candleholder in one hand, the flame’s light dancing on her beautiful face, her long, dark hair spilling down her back.
Say somethin’, you lout!
But before Morgan could find his tongue, she had disappeared into their room.
What could he say? He wouldn’t apologize for wanting to protect her. That was his duty as a husband. Why was he expected to watch over her and keep her safe from harm when it came to wild animals and ruthless men, but blamed and condemned when he tried to protect her from the harm that his own seed might cause?
You are selfish and wish only to free yourself from fear.
Her words came back to him, but he brushed them aside. He followed her, closing their bedroom door behind him, not wishing for his words to disturb Killy and Joseph.
She stood there wearing only her nightgown, a woolen shawl around her shoulders, candleholder in her hand.
"I’ve a gift for you." He drew the velvet bag from his breeches and gave it to her, taking the candleholder to free her hands.
Curiosity on her sweet face, she opened the bag and drew out the combs. "Oh, Morgan! They are lovely!"
He felt a surge of relief, glad that she was pleased with his gift. "They are carved from ivory. When first I saw them, I could not help but imagine them in your hair."
She turned them over in her hand, her enthralled expression giving way to worry. "But how could you afford such a gift?"
"Och, it was well within my means. I would give you the stars if it would prove to you that I love you."
Sadness returned to her face. "I do not doubt your love, Morgan. These are beautiful, but there is no possession I value more than you — your body, your heart, your soul — and that is what you refuse to give me. Thank you for the combs. Good night, Morgan. Joyeux Noël."
She turned as if she meant to go sleep in the boys’ room again.
Hurt lanced through him, followed by anger.
It was time they settled this.
"Amalie — stop." He went to her.
She stood still, as he’d bidden her, but her gaze was averted.
"’Tis Christmas. You’ll be sleepin’ in the bed wi’ me tonight. I’ll no’ see you catch your death by sleepin’ on the floor."
"As you wish."
Och, Satan’s hairy arse! He hadn’t meant to speak the words as though they were a command. He didn’t want her obedience. He wanted her to be happy.
He set the candleholder down on the bedside table, reached out, cupped her shoulders. "I dinnae wish to see you fall ill."
She said nothing.
"Amalie, for God’s sake! How can you blame me when all I want in this world is to keep you and our sons safe?"
She turned to face him. "I do not wish merely to be safe. I want to live, Morgan! I want to feel your love, to be your wife in every way!"
"But you are my wife in every way."
She shook her head. "You refuse to give me all of yourself, as if I were your mistress or your…your whore."
"That’s no’ the way of it. I cherish you! You bloody well ken that!" He drew a breath, worked to rein in his temper. This was not turning out as he’d hoped. He did not wish to fight with her. "At least tell me why you were weepin’. I saw tears on your face."
Her gaze dropped to the floor. "I was thinking of Mary. An angel came to her and told her she was with child even though she was a virgin, and she never once faltered. Not when Joseph doubted her. Not on the long journey to Bethlehem. Not when she had no choice but to give birth in a stable with only Joseph at her side. It is a story of faith, Morgan. Can you not see? If Joseph found the faith to stand by Mary, why can you not find the faith to stand by me?"
"But I do stand by you! I would never forsake you!"
She looked up at him. "In your fear, you already have. By denying me your body, you deny us, our marriage, our love. You seek to spare me suffering, but in doing so you deprive me of the joys of being a wife and mother."
And Morgan understood. "You truly want this. You would risk your life for this."
"Oui. I want you Morgan — all of you."
He drew her to him, taking her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. She melted against him, returned the kiss with a woman’s full passion, her fingers sliding into his hair.
Desire long denied flared to life inside him, and he found himself lifting the soft linen of her nightgown in impatient handfuls, hungry for the feel of her, his cock already hard and straining against the leather of his breeches.
But she was impatient, too, her hands sliding beneath his shirt to caress his chest, then dropping lower, boldly rubbing the bulge of his erection.
There was no time for tenderness or gentle kisses, raw need driving them both.
<
br /> With a groan, Morgan drew her nightgown over her head, then lifted her off her feet and laid her back on their bed, firelight dancing over her bare breasts, the gentle curve of her belly, the dark curls that hid her sex.
She reached down to fight with the fall of his breeches. "Now, Morgan!"
Hunger pounding though his veins, he pushed her hands aside and drew his cock free, moaning aloud when he pressed the engorged tip against her cleft to find that she was already wet and ready for him.
