Scot Under the Mistletoe (The Hots for Scots)

by Caroline Lee

  So Nessa felt comfortable enough admitting, with a sigh, “Aye. My heart’s just no’ in it today.”

  The older woman hummed, her attention on her own knitting. “Father Stephen would likely tell ye ‘tis the Lord’s influence, reminding ye to spend the day fasting to celebrate the birth of His son.”

  Nessa chuckled dryly. “But Father Stephen had a stick up his arse, remember? I like Father Ambrose much better, even if his advice is less relevant to my spiritual well-being.”

  “What? Ye dinnae think, ‘A pinch of gingerroot in yer tea can settle yer stomach demons,’ is no’ sound Biblical advice?”

  Nessa smiled at the other woman’s bland tone, which was the reaction Agatha was going for.

  “I like him too,” the older woman admitted. “He’s a refreshing change.”

  “And no’ too bad to look at either, eh?” needled Nessa.

  “Niece! For shame! ‘Tis a man of the cloth ye speak of!” Agatha winked. “A man of the cloth, with a fine-looking face under all that beard, and I’ve always admired a man with a bit of girth to him.”

  Nessa pretended shock. “But Aunt! What about Laird MacKinnon? I thought ye had taken a fancy to him!”

  Clucking her tongue in faked irritation, Agatha turned her attention back to her knitting once more. “A woman of my age can take a fancy to as many men as she pleases. I’m what ye might call a—what did ye call it—a ‘modern woman?’ ”

  “Och, aye! We’ll have ye wearing men’s clothes in nae time, Aunt. Of course, I suppose there’s no’ much difference between yer skirts and a kilt…”

  “Hush, ye sack of wind!” Agatha snapped. “A kilt is a fine costume, with a long tradition, and plenty of—”

  “ ’Tis a dress, and ye ken it.”

  The older woman sniffed, but Nessa could see she was hiding a smile.

  “ ’Tis a kilt, and aye, mayhap it shows off a bit of knee—and thigh—and higher at times. Have I ever told ye what a blessing ‘tis to be a Scotswoman?”

  Both of them fell to giggles at the reminder, and it felt…good.

  Being trapped inside for Christ’s Mass was not unheard of, but Nessa missed the joyful celebrations the clan would all participate in. Oh, the Mass itself was solemn and dignified—although it would’ve been fun to hear what Father Ambrose would have come up with for the sermon—but it was always pleasant to be with her clan and celebrate out-of-doors, in the crisp snow and bright sunshine.

  Instead, this morning’s Mass had been pitiful, celebrated only for those who remained in the castle, the great hall’s echoes had done strange things to the priest’s words. Thanks to Moira, Lara and Evelinde, the hall was decorated for the holy day—including those mysterious little bundles of mistletoe—but it couldn’t compare to the way the church was usually decorated by the clan women.

  At least tonight, there were plans for storytelling and treats around the grand hearth in the great hall. That wasn’t traditional, but for certes ‘twas something to look forward to.

  Aunt Agatha gained her attention again when she cleared her throat. “I noticed that young man of yers has quite fine knees,” she said slyly.

  “Ye’ve never met any of my betrotheds,” Nessa snapped mulishly, lifting her embroidery and stabbing at it without really looking. “Neither have I.”

  “No’ those unseen Henrys, lass. I mean the one ye really fancy. The housekeeper’s son, Lara’s brother.”

  Nessa frowned at her great aunt over the top of her linen. “Brohn? He’s no’ my man.”

  “He could be, if ye wanted.” The old woman cackled knowingly.

  He was…once.

  Blinking back tears, Nessa lifted the embroidery to hide her reaction and pretended great interest in the threads.

  “Och, lass, I dinnae mean to remind ye of hard memories. Ye like him, do ye no’? And if I had to guess, I’d say he likes ye, and ‘tis just his blasted sense of duty to the clan keeping ye apart.”

  Duty to the clan? What the devil did that have to do with anything?

  But before Nessa could ask, the older woman continued.

  “He’s much like his mother in that way, ye ken. That daft foolish lass is content with what happiness my goat of a nephew is offering now, instead of grabbing it with both hands and demanding what she deserves!”

  Wait, what?

  Nessa blinked, working her way through the older woman’s declaration. Putting aside, for a moment, the fact Aunt Agatha had just called Moira—middle-aged and ruler of the castle in many ways—a foolish lass, but she was speaking of…marriage?

  “Aunt Agatha,” she began cautiously, “how long do ye think Da and Moira have been, um…have been carrying on?”

  “Having sexual relations, ye mean?” The old woman cackled. “Oh, about the time the Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle became so noisy, I suspect.”

  Nessa’s shoulders straightened as she shot upright, her embroidery forgotten. “What are ye saying, Aunt Agatha?”

  The old woman’s attention was on her knitting, but she was grinning gleefully. “Have ye ever explored the castle’s secret passages, lassie?”

  “Secret pass— Nay!” Nessa gasped. “We have secret passages?”

  “Of course! How do ye think Moira and yer father met so often and so few kenned?”

  While Nessa was still reeling from this casually given information, her aunt shrugged.

  “Of course, Moira likely learned of the passages from her first husband. His name was Brohn, ye ken—no’ yer lad’s name, they just gave him that name to tease him—but his da, the first Brohn—”

  “What are ye talking about, Aunt Agatha?”

  “Moira’s first husband, lass, pay attention!”

  “Nay! I mean, Brohn’s name isnae really Brohn?”

  The old woman looked up from her knitting and blinked. “Well, nay. Ye dinnae ken that?” She shrugged. “His da was Brohn Oliphant, who was something of a steward for the castle. When yer lad was young, he was scrawny and tall, and the other lads like a joke, aye? I think ‘twas Kiergan who pointed out that his da’s name—Brohn the steward was dead by then, of course—sounded like brawn, B-R-A-W-N, and then began to call the poor lad that in jest.”

  Brawn? Brohn?

  Nessa shook her head. Brohn’s name wasn’t really Brohn? Thanks to Kiergan? “But Brohn is brawny!”

  “Aye, and quite fine to look at, is he no’? I like the way he keeps those cheeks of his clean-shaven so I can see his fine jawline.”

  Nessa felt as if she were floundering in a sea of confusion. “Aye, and his shoulders are nice, too,” she murmured.

  “Even better to feel, I’ll wager!” her great-aunt cackled.

  Feeling her face heating, Nessa nodded mutely. It wasn’t embarrassment which had her flushing, but irritation. ‘Twas a stupid secret to keep, but how had she never known Brohn’s true name?

  And there were secret passages in the castle? Ones Agatha, Da, and apparently Moira as well, knew of? Did Brohn know of them too?

  Suddenly, she stood and dropped her embroidery into the basket beside her chair. “Excuse me, Aunt Agatha. I’ve suddenly remembered I need to…” Her mind blanked on an excuse.

  “Need to use the privy? Need to go research swords some more? Need to go find that handsome lad of yers and run yer hands over those well-formed shoulders?” Cackling, the old woman waved her hand dismissively. “I dinnae care what yer excuse is. In fact, I’ll give ye one myself: I need ye to go so I can take a nap! I need to rest up for tonight’s festivities.”

  It was a pitiful excuse, but Nessa took it. Grabbing up her skirts, she offered her aunt a quick curtsey, then ran from the room.

  She finally found Brohn in Alistair’s solar.

  Well, ‘twas not exactly Alistair’s, was it? Not anymore.

  Technically, it belonged to the laird, but Alistair—who’d spent years devoted to clan business with no time for fun—had claimed it long ago. Before his marriage, he even slept here on a little cot in t
he corner. Now he and Lara shared one of the fine chambers near Nessa’s own rooms, and the solar was used by anyone with clan business.

  Which, apparently, included Brohn.

  She skid to a stop once she realized who was sitting behind the desk, frowning down at a ledger of guard rotations.

  Brohn’s head jerked up, and he was already half out of his seat when he blurted, “Nessa? Is aught wrong?”

  She must’ve looked more frantic than expected, eh?

  Stepping into the room, Nessa forced her breathing to slow and forced her heart to calm its frantic beating. The problem was, now she was in his presence again, it was thumping for an entirely different reason.

  “I was looking for ye,” she said simply.

  The emotions which flitted across his face made her curious: Relief, then joy, then worry.

  Was it possible Aunt Agatha’s casual guess—that Brohn still cared for her?—was accurate?

  Slowly, Brohn placed the ledger back where it belonged and continued to straighten, until he was standing fully upright beside the desk. And Nessa, emboldened, continued into the room until she stood in front of him, her head tilted back to meet his eyes.

  “Why were ye looking for me, lass?” he asked, in nearly a whisper.

  Unconsciously, her hand rose, and her palm flattened against his chest. “I need ye.”

  Brohn jerked as if he’d been hit. First toward her, then away. But his hand clasped hers, pressing it against his chest, as he managed a strangled, “Nessa.”

  The desire, the need, was so strong, Nessa didn’t want to fight it. She pushed herself up on her toes, her lips inching closer to his…but then remembered how he’d denied her.

  He hadn’t stood for her in front of her father, and he hadn’t announced his love for her. He’d let himself—and what they’d shared—be pushed into the shadows.

  Why? For duty?

  To hell with that.

  Feeling a little bit vindictive, and a little bit powerful, Nessa swallowed down her desire and forced her lips into a smile. Still pressed against him, she looked into his eyes, and whispered, “Do ye ken about the secret passages, Brohn?”

  Well, that hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear, it was clear.

  The man actually gave a little stumble, which was remarkable, considering he wasn’t in motion. But she pressed her lips together to hide her giggle and settled back down on her own feet. Her hand was still pressed against his chest, but she moved to put a little more space between them.

  For her own sanity, and to torture him some more.

  “The…secret passages?” His voice sounded a little hoarse.

  “Aye.” As she shrugged, she pulled her hand from his and plopped it on her hip. “Aunt Agatha says yer mother and my father have been using them to sneak about for years now. Do ye ken of them?”

  She watched him swallow, obviously struggling to follow the conversation.

  “Aye,” he finally croaked, then shook his head and started again in his normal voice. “Aye, the castle is riddled with them. There’s an entrance right here in this room.”

  Nessa gasped.

  Right here?

  Spinning around, she tried to find the entrance, her heart pounding in excitement, which wasn’t entirely due to his nearness now.

  “Where?” she demanded, even as she launched herself toward the nearest wall and began to run her fingers across the stone.

  Chuckling once under his breath, Brohn stepped to the opposite side of the room and lifted aside a tapestry she’d never cared for. It depicted a meadow in spring and didn’t contain one severed head or erect penis or anything.

  Boring.

  “Here,” Brohn said, showing her the stones behind the tapestry, which looked exactly the same as all the other stones. But when he pushed on one of the stones, a section of the wall swung open, revealing a passageway.

  Nessa moved closer, and upon examining the stone wall, she discovered the wall was actually just painted wood.

  “Some of the entrance points are wood, some are built into the stone. The one in yer room is part of the stone, near the hearth.”

  Her sense of surprise—already overwhelmed with excitement by the knowledge there were actual, literal secret passages in the castle—had to go have a little lie-down in the corner by itself.

  “Ye’re telling me I have an entrance to a secret passage located in my room…and I didnae ken it?”

  Brohn smiled. “Nae one can peek through it, dinnae fash.”

  With another gasp—her internal surprise meter was now moaning and rocking under a blanket somewhere—she sprang to his side, peering into the passage. “Ye checked? Ye tried to spy on me?”

  He didn’t answer at first. When finally she dragged her attention from the dark passageway back to him, he looked…awkward.

  “I’ve watched ye grow up, Nessa. I wanted ye for a long time, but I never thought ye’d look at me and see someone worth giving yer attentions—”

  Her heart did that little clenchy thing again, and she found her hand patting his arm in comfort, quite by accident.

  She wanted to tell him he was worthy, and braw, and a warrior she’d be pleased to call her own. She wanted to throw herself around him, to kiss him again, to feel him plunge into her, making her cry his name.

  But…but…secret passage!

  Priorities, after all.

  So she patted his arm again and glanced upward. “Is that… Why is there mistletoe dangling up there? Did yer mother place some in all the other secret passages too?”

  Brohn was smiling ruefully when he shook his head. “Lara hung that there. As I understand it, this particular entrance has a bit of a history between her and Alistair, and she liked to be reminded.”

  “And the mistletoe does that?”

  He shrugged. “The legend says that when a couple finds themselves under the mistletoe, they must kiss.”

  And her mouth went dry.

  She and Brohn were standing in the entrance to the secret passage…under the mistletoe.

  Chapter 4

  He thought she was going to kiss him.

  Brohn held himself absolutely still as her gaze slowly dropped from the dried mistletoe to his eyes, but in the shadows, he couldn’t see her expression. He held his breath, willing her to take the chance, while at the same time dreading it.

  Because if she leaned toward him again, if she tightened her hold on his arm, if she did anything to indicate she wanted to kiss him…he didn’t think he was strong enough to deny her.

  To deny himself.

  St. Odran knew it had almost killed him the first time.

  So, aye, Brohn held his breath…and when she dropped her hand and turned toward the dark passageway, he couldn’t decide if he was thankful, or disappointed.

  As she disappeared into the darkness, he blew out a breath—half curse, half groan—and followed her. The door to the solar swung shut, and they were trapped in blackness.

  “Nessa!” he hissed, fumbling in the direction she’d hurried.

  Her whispered, “Aye?” came from closer than he expected, and he managed to keep from slamming into her. With one hand on the wall of the passage, he groped for her arm.

  “I dinnae want to lose ye in here, lass,” he said in a low voice, as he dragged his grip down her forearm and twined his fingers through hers. “There are no’ dangers, but without a light, ‘twould be easy to get lost.”

  She was still for a few moments longer than he expected, but then he heard her sigh. “Should we go back for a candle?”

  Giving her fingers a squeeze, Brohn smiled, knowing she couldn’t see it. “I ken my way through the passages, Nessa. I’ve been traveling them since I was a lad, and a few of yer brothers have as well. Remember, Alistair and Kiergan were born here in the castle.”

  “I was too.” She sounded a bit mulish. “How come I’ve never heard of them?”

  “Well…ye’ve never had to sneak through them to meet up with a secret love
r, have ye?”

  He shouldn’t have asked her that. He knew she hadn’t, because he’d been her first. He’d never forget the night she gave him her virginity, how she’d come apart in his arms, and how fiercely proud that had made him, knowing she was his.

  And then she wasnae, and ‘tis all thanks to yer blasted honor, eh?

  Her swallow was audible. “Are ye saying ye’ve traveled through these passages to meet up with a secret lover, Brohn?”

  His reply was immediate. “Never.” He and Nessa had either met in her room, or his little apartment near the barracks, or on two memorable occasions, out in the meadow atop a blanket. “But I was referring to yer brothers.”

  She gave a little sniff, and he felt her turn away from him. Her first step was more of a stumble…but she didn’t drop his hand.

  “My brothers…” she mused, “or our parents?”

  In the darkness, one of Brohn’s brows lifted as he followed behind her. They were heading toward the personal chambers, and if he remembered correctly, there’d be a slit in the outer wall soon letting in a little light, and serving as a landmark to anyone who needed to turn down a side passage. So, knowing where they were going, albeit stumblingly, he was able to focus his attention on her words.

  “Our parents?” he repeated blandly.

  “My father and yer mother,” she called over her shoulder, as if he needed reminding. “They’ve been lovers for years, aye? But Agatha said something today which had me wondering…”

  When she trailed off, Brohn’s second brow joined his first. “Aye?”

  When she stopped, he bumped into her. But neither made any effort to move away.

  “Do ye think…” She was so close her breath teased his cheek when she spoke. “Do ye think they used these passages?”

  He swallowed. “What makes ye think that?”

  “Aunt Agatha hinted that mayhap…mayhap they—Moira and Da, I mean—had something to do with the ghostly drummer.”

  Brohn opened his mouth, but she hurried on before he could think of how to explain.