All Things Merry and Bright: A Very Special Christmas Tale Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Crouching under the window, she dug inside her satchel to find the bit of flint she had packed. Soon, she had one candle lit, which was a feat unto itself. Her fingers ached from being so cold. It took several attempts, but she finally managed. The candle added just enough light to the room that she could close the fur. Once she had it securely fastened, she set about preparing the brazier for a fire.

  With a handful of kindling, she tried several times to get a spark but to no avail. She set the flint down and rubbed her hands together. They were numb and tingling, and she prayed she did not have frostbite. What good could she do as a healer if she lost her fingers? Or her toes, which were equally as cold.

  Tears pooled in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. Ye are an eejit, she cursed inwardly. Lachlan will likely catch his death from wading into that stream, and it be all yer fault.

  Guilt and self-condemnation filled her heart. Lachlan came fer ye; the least ye can do is light a bloody fire so that he does no’ die!

  Holding back the tears, she tried once again to get a spark from her flint. She could barely see through the tears she refused to shed, to strike the pieces together. On her last failed attempt, she accidentally struck the flint against the knuckle of her finger. She could take no more. The tears fell.

  Just then, warm arms circled her as Lachlan once again came to her rescue.

  HE SAID NOT a word as he took the flint out of her hands. Within moments, he had the kindling burning, as all the while, Mariote wept quietly. He did not like seeing her in such a state as this, but before he could attempt to comfort her, he had to see to it that they did not freeze to death.

  The fire was soon blazing, slowly taking the chill out of the air. He removed his wet boots and woolens, placing them close to the fire to dry. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a pair of dry woolens and slipped them on. They felt good against his cold skin.

  Without permission, he carefully slid Mariote’s boots and woolens off. She sat motionless and quiet as he fished through her satchel. Finding dry woolens, he tenderly pulled them over her feet.

  She murmured a thank you as she kept her gaze on the floor.

  Touching her bare skin, hearing her soft voice, sent a jolt of excitement coursing through his veins. ’Twas all he could do not to take her in his arms and kiss her worries and guilt away. But he could not act on those long-held desires, for he knew her heart still belonged to Willem.

  He left her long enough to grab one of the pallets and the spare blanket he’d brought with him. He urged her to stand long enough to put the pallet on the floor in front of the fire. She complied without complaint.

  Neither did she complain when he wrapped the blanket and an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

  Lachlan didn’t rightly know how to console a crying woman, so little experience did he have with such things. He supposed the best thing he could do for now would be to allow her to simply cry it out. He no longer felt any anger toward her, only compassion and a bit of pity.

  “Why are ye no’ railin’ at me?” she asked after a long while had passed.

  “’Tis no’ my place to do that. I be no’ yer father or brother.”

  Mariote scoffed and shook her head. “But ye are my friend.”

  “Am I?” he asked, a bit of anger resurfacing. If I were yer true friend, ye would have come to me fer good advice.

  Hurt, she pulled away. “Of course ye’re my friend!” she exclaimed.

  “They why in God’s name did ye no’ come to me before stealin’ away in the middle of the night?”

  Glowering at him, she said, “How did ye ken where I was?”

  “Orabilis,” he replied.

  Mariote closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “Of course.”

  “She was concerned, as she had every right to be. She came to me not moments after ye went into the tunnels.”

  “Then why did ye no’ stop me before I got to Conner, or whatever his real name is?” she asked, exasperated.

  Lachlan drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Had I stopped ye from gettin’ to the love of yer life, ye would never have forgiven me.”

  Deflated, her shoulders sagged. “He was no’ the love of my life.”

  “Then why in the bloody hell did ye run off with him?”

  “YE WOULD NO’ understand,” she told him. He was, after all, a man. And most men, according to her mother, were quite obtuse when it came to matters of the heart.

  “Enlighten me,” he demanded.

  There was no sense lying to him, Mariote supposed. ’Twas time her friend learned the truth. “Because I did no’ think anyone else would ask for my hand.”

  His expression said he questioned her soundness of mind. “Are ye daft?”

  Shrugging her shoulders, she looked away. “I suppose I am.” She couldn’t look him in the eye just yet. “Daft. Desperate. Lonely.”

  Gently, he touched her chin with his fingertips, turning her to look at him. “Why on earth would ye think no one would have ye?”

  “Why wouldn’t I think that?” she asked. “No’ one man in our entire clan ever gives me a second glance. No’ one has ever tried to steal a kiss, or ask me to dance at gatherin’s. No’ a one even kens I exist!” She was beyond perturbed, she was downright angry. “Ye be the only one brave enough to talk to me. The rest? They all run in the opposite direction or look down at their feet when I walk by. Unless they’re ill or injured, none will so much as give me a ‘how-do-ye-do’.”

  “Because they all ken yer da would kill them if they so much as glanced at ye or yer sisters,” he told her. “He warned all of us the day ye first arrived, and nearly every day since, to give ye all a wide berth, lest they had a desire to have their bullocks on a pike.”

  Mariote blinked several times in disbelief. Ridiculous. It could not be as simple as a father’s warning. “Nonsense,” she said firmly.

  “Lass, I tell ye true.” Lachlan brushed an errant hair from her forehead. “A man would have to be blind no’ to see how beautiful ye are. But he’d have to be bloody insane before takin’ a chance with yer da.”

  He was serious. Deadly serious.

  “There be many men in our clan who would be honored to have ye as their wife. But I fear none are brave enough to broach the subject with yer da.”

  All this time she had thoroughly believed she was nothing remarkable. Nothing worthy of a second glance. She didn’t know if she should feel grateful for Alysander’s protection or angry.

  Her mind went back to the clearing, to what Willem had told her. Did Lachlan truly love her? Try as she might, she simply couldn’t tell, no matter how long she stared into his blue eyes. Feelings she thought long buried began to bubble to the surface. Was it her childhood crush coming back to haunt her? Or was it something more?

  “Lachlan,” she whispered his name, searching for the right words, the correct way to ask him what was truly burning in the back of her mind.

  He let go of her hands and shot to his feet. “I ken ye love Willem, Mariote. I ken ye have for a long while.”

  As soon as he left her, she felt cold and empty. ’Twas the oddest of sensations.

  Craning her neck, she could only sit in silence as she watched him pace back and forth.

  “I ken why all the lasses chase after him. I ken why they all swoon at the mere mention of his name,” he growled as he raked a hand through his hair. “Willem is my friend. But I must tell ye that ye need to rid yerself of yer feelin’s for him, lest ye end up with a broken heart that can never be fixed.”

  “But Lachlan—” she tried interrupting, but he was having none of it.

  “Aye, he be a good lookin’ man, and right charmin’. He be a good man to have with ye on the field of battle. But Mariote, he be a womanizer! He takes what he wants and thinks no’ of any repercussions.”

  “I ken—”

  “No’ only would he break yer heart, he’d grind it into dust!”

  She thought it an awful way to think o
f his friend. Realizing he was exaggerating just a wee bit, she tried to interject her own opinion. Her voice fell on deaf ears.

  “I have been tryin’ to tell ye for a good long while that to love Willem would lead ye to ruin. Now look at ye. He made ye so desperate ye were ready to give yerself to the first man who asked fer yer hand!”

  She had heard enough. “I do no’ love Willem!” She screamed only to be heard and to gain his attention.

  He looked as though she’d just sprouted a tail. “What did ye say?”

  Rolling her eyes at his stupidity, she repeated herself. “I do no’ love Willem.”

  “And just when did ye come to that startlin’ revelation?”

  “When ye rescued me from Conner.”

  “Fergus,” he corrected.

  “Och!” she cried out in anger, stomping her foot as she clenched her hands together. “Whatever his name be!”

  He paced for a moment, scratching the back of his neck with his fingers, giving much thought to her admission. “Ye do no’ love Willem anymore?”

  “I do no’ think I ever truly loved him,” she said, trying to calm her anger.

  He shook his head and began to speak, as if hearing the words would bring some clarity to the matter. “So ye thought ye loved Willem. Then Fergus started writin’ to ye—”

  “Conner,” she interjected. “I thought ’twas Conner MacGavin writin’ to me.”

  “Does it truly matter?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, it does!”

  “Why?”

  He would never understand.

  He started over. “Ye thought ye loved Willem. Then Fergus, who was impersonatin’ Conner MacGavin, started writin’ to ye. So ye fell in love with his pretty words and decided to hie off and marry him. But then, after Willem and I rescued ye from him, ye decided ye did no’ love him after all and ye also do no’ love Willem. Have I got it correct, lass?” he asked, smirking and quirking a brow.

  “That is no’ what happened!”

  “Then explain it to me, so that I can get it right in my mind.”

  Mariote took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “’Tis true, I did think I had some mighty strong feelin’s for Willem. ’Tis also true that Conner started to write to me several months ago. But I knew I didn’t love him. I only accepted his proposal because I thought no one else would want me.” Folding her hands in front of her, she waited for understanding to sink into his thick skull.

  “And now ye ken ye do no’ love Willem?” he asked, for clarification’s sake.

  “Aye, I now ken I do no’ love Willem. I do no’ think I ever truly did.”

  He let loose a frustrated, if not relieved breath.

  Mariote decided that keeping her heart so tightly shut from fear of embarrassment, she perhaps should now be completely honest with him. She’d regret it all the rest of her days if she weren’t. “I believe I do love someone else,” she told him.

  Before she could get another word out, he was angry all over again. “Jesu!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I pity any man who does decide to marry ye! If ye can change the love in yer heart faster than a raindrop hittin’ the ground!”

  Insulted, she stomped toward him. “That is no’ true and ye ken it!”

  “Are ye certain?” he asked, his tone challenging and laced with just a bit of hurt.

  She glowered at him. “Och! I do no’ ken why I even try to tell ye anythin’, fer ye twist it and make it somethin’ ugly.”

  Glaring back at her he said, “Who is he?”

  Feigning ignorance she asked, “Who is who?”

  He grabbed her arms and pulled her to his chest. Seething, he said, “Do no’ try my patience, woman! I demand to ken who it is that has stolen yer heart!”

  Before she could tell him where he could shove his demands, the door to the croft was flung open.

  Alysander McCullum was standing in the doorway. So large was he that he blocked any light from coming in. He ducked his head and stepped into the croft. His fur cloak and boots were crusted and covered in snow. As soon as he saw his daughter and Lachlan, his face turned a deep shade of purple.

  Mariote was more than surprised to see him here. “Da?” she whispered, uncertain if she was imagining him.

  “Alysander?” Lachlan said, sounding just as perplexed as she.

  Alysander tossed back the hood of his cloak and withdrew his sword, looking directly at Lachlan. “Ye be a dead man.”

  HER FATHER HAD no sooner stepped into the croft when their clan priest, Braigh MacAllister stepped in. Though one wouldn’t know he was a priest, for he was so young, with long, dark hair and big green eyes. One also wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between him and any of their clan warriors.

  “Thank God, ye found her!” he exclaimed happily. His expression changed however, the instant he saw Lachlan.

  “What is he doin’ here?” Lachlan asked at the same times as Braigh.

  “I brought the priest to give last rites to the man I planned on killin’,” Alysander explained, his tone most serious. To Braigh, he said, “I have a good idea as to what he is doin’ here.”

  Without thinking, Mariote jumped between Lachlan and her father, holding her hand out to keep Alysander from running his sword through Lachlan’s heart. “Now, Da, this be no’ what it looks like.”

  Alysander glared angrily as he took a step forward and turned that fierceness back toward Lachlan. “Tell me what I am to think?”

  “Well, ye see—” Lachlan began at the same time Mariote tried to give her explanation.

  Alysander refused to allow either of them to continue. In a loud voice, he declared, “I find out me most precious daughter—the one I used to believe was the only one with an ounce of common sense—has run off to marry. But whom is it she has given her heart to?” he asked, turning back to Mariote. “I do no ken, because her sister refused to tell me!”

  Oh, this was not good, for now he was shouting. Alysander rarely shouted at her. Mariote took a step back and leaned against Lachlan.

  “Then, when I put a call out for a search party, I find two of me men are also missin’. So I set off to find me precious daughter, and where do I discover her? In a bloody hunting croft with a man I thought I could trust!”

  “But Da, that is no’ the way of it!”

  “If ye would allow me to explain,” Lachlan said in a most even tone.

  Alysander pinned him in place with another fierce glare. “If ye wish to keep yer tongue in yer head, I would advise ye to remain silent.”

  Braigh grunted and nodded as if to say Ye’d best heed his warning.

  Alysander took in a deep breath, doing his best to control his burgeoning anger. “I can no’ believe ye did this, Mariote. I can no’ believe ye ran off in the middle of the night.” He shook his head slowly and turned his back to her.

  Guilt tugged at her heart. She hadn’t meant to cause him such anguish. Words were lodged in her throat, along with a goodly number of tears. She had hurt him, deeply.

  ALYSANDER WAS QUIET for the longest time. Finally, he turned around and looked directly at Lachlan. “Her reputation will be in ruins before the sun sets this day.”

  “Aye,” Lachlan said, looking him directly in the eye.

  Braigh spoke up then. “Do ye intend to do the right thing?”

  Lachlan glowered at him, insulted at the suggestion that he wouldn’t. “Of course I intend to do the right thing.”

  Alysander and Braigh continued to stare at him. If he was nervous, he certainly wasn’t showing it. Mariote thought perchance they had all gone daft at once.

  “Are ye certain?” Alysander asked.

  “Aye, I be certain.”

  Mariote looked at each man, her brow knitted, confused as to what exactly was happening. “Are ye certain about what?” she asked, looking first to Lachlan then to her father. Neither man answered, neither man moved.

  “Would someone please explain to me what is happening?”
she asked as dread began to rise.

  They ignored her.

  “Ye ken I could kill ye right now, and none would blame me,” Alysander said.

  Braigh grunted once again. “I think even in this instance, God would fergive ye, Alysander.” Braigh may have been a priest, a man of God, but he was a warrior first.

  Lachlan glanced briefly at the priest, his hands clenched into fists.

  “My da will no’ kill anyone this day,” Mariote said, raising her voice.

  They continued to talk as if she weren’t even in the room.

  Alysander turned his attention to Braigh. “Can we do this now?”

  “I do no’ ken why no’, considerin’ the grave circumstances.”

  Having reached the end of her patience, Mariote pushed her way through and stood before her father. “Ye will no’ kill Lachlan!”

  Alysander’s brow furrowed. “I do no’ plan on it.”

  “Then what are ye goin’ on about? What can ye do now? What are the grave circumstances?”

  All three men looked at her as if she were no smarter than a flea. Then the realization of what they were planning came crashing through her mind. The MacCullum men might be a hard-headed, blunt lot, but they were, above all things, honorable.

  “Yer marriage,” Braigh said.

  “What marriage?” she asked, her heart beginning to thrum nervously.

  “To me,” Lachlan replied sternly.

  THEY WERE DAFT. All three of them.

  “Ye can no’ be serious.” She took a step away from her father. Oh, but the expression on Lachlan’s face said he was quite serious. Her heart cracked, just a little. He was only marrying her out of some profound sense of honor, out of his desire to protect her reputation, lest it be sullied beyond all repair.

  “Damn right I am,” Lachlan said.

  “Do no’ use that tone with me daughter,” Alysander warned him. “Or that language.”

  “I am no’ marryin’ anyone,” Mariote said as she took another step away. “No’ now, no’ ever.”