A Highlander Christmas

by Dawn Halliday, Cindy Miles, Sophie Renwick

  The blizzard raged on, and they sat near the fire through the day, sharing food and ale, and talking. She seemed cured of the effects of exposure to the cold, but bruises had deepened on her face and leg, and a scab had crusted over the area where Munroe had nicked her with a dagger—constant reminders that she’d been wronged. Just a glance at the black smudges circling the delicate skin of her eye was enough to make Logan itch to hunt down Munroe and drive him through with his sword.

  Satisfied that she no longer required his body heat, Logan slept on the floor that night. The next morning, snow continued to fall and black tinged the clouds overhead, promising the storm would intensify yet again. The snow alone served as reason enough to stay in the cabin a while longer, yet even if the weather had cleared completely, Logan still wouldn’t have taken her home. Though she appeared healed in body, he sensed the distress of her spirit, and he had no wish to lead her into danger.

  He couldn’t allow her to return to the Munroe bastard, Logan thought grimly as he pushed back from the table and took their breakfast dishes to rinse outside. He must see her home and ensure Munroe wouldn’t trouble her anymore. He didn’t relish killing, but if he had to kill the man to be certain, that was what he’d do.

  Maggie didn’t seem anxious to leave the cottage, either. Not to return to her home, in any case. When he’d announced he thought the weather too unpredictable to risk the journey down the mountain, she’d only spoken wistfully of the lost dragon pin that had belonged to her mother.

  “How will we ever find it?” she’d murmured sadly. “It’s probably buried under a mountain of snow.”

  It seemed to be all that she was truly connected to, all that she truly cared about, and he’d promised they’d search for it once her clothes had dried.

  He stepped inside and went to the fire to warm his hands. Feeling her gaze on him, he glanced back at the table. “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  She sat shrouded in shadow, yet light from the fire made her curls sparkle like black gems. She wore a plaid wrapped round her body, and he’d given her the use of his plaid pin so she wouldn’t have to grip the edges to keep herself covered.

  He lowered himself to the edge of the bed nearest the fire. As soon as he sat, Maggie gasped and hurried toward him, staring at his leg with wide eyes. The plaid had bunched up on his thigh, revealing the half-h ealed bayonet wound.

  “Good Lord in Heaven,” she breathed.

  He yanked the edge of the plaid down to cover his wound. “It is nothing.”

  “You’ve been stabbed!”

  “Aye.”

  “Who?”

  “A governmental at Sheriffmuir.”

  “You are a Jacobite,” she breathed.

  “Aye.” He searched her eyes, wondering whether she was a sympathizer. Many of the MacDonald clans had pledged themselves to the cause, so it didn’t seem far-f etched to think she might be for King James.

  “My cousin’s men were at Preston to fight for James,” she murmured, and he released a breath of relief. Logan didn’t wish to analyze why her political bent should matter to him; it just did.

  “They returned home weeks ago, though,” she mused. “That is where you’re going, isn’t it? Home?”

  He nodded.

  “Is it because of the wound that you didn’t return with the other men?” she asked.

  “I lost consciousness during the battle and was captured by the enemy.”

  “The English?”

  “No. The Duke of Argyll’s men.”

  “Och,” she murmured sympathetically. To be captured by the English would have been bad enough, but the sheer torture of being captured by one’s own countrymen was an experience Logan never wished to repeat.

  “I escaped,” he said tonelessly. “About a fortnight ago.”

  “And you have been walking all this time.”

  He nodded.

  Tentatively, she reached for his leg, but he captured her hand in his own. “No.”

  “I might be able to help.”

  “There is nothing to be done.”

  Nevertheless, she lowered herself beside him, and when she reached toward him again, he allowed her to pull up the hem of his plaid. A jagged scab covered part of the wound, but another part oozed clear fluid, and the area encircling it was red, angry, and swollen.

  Maggie studied it, her fingers gingerly touching the outside of the wound. “It’s going to fester, I think,” she said with an edge of horror in her voice.

  “It already has.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “It is healing now,” he said.

  She shook her head, seemingly unable to believe him.

  “It is not going to kill me.”

  She glanced up, her fists curling, anger lending a steely gray hue to her blue eyes. “You intend to cheat death by mere force of will, do you?”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  Maggie blew a coil of hair away from her face. “Foolish man. It requires washing. Then . . .” She glanced around the dim interior of the cottage, her gaze landing on the chest he’d pushed into a corner. She’d already explored its contents to search for something to wear, but had only found men’s clothing and boots. “I know what to do. My mother taught me . . .” She broke off, blinking against the shine in her eyes. “I’ll tear up some linens for a bandage.”

  He shrugged as she fetched a pot of snow and hung it over the fire. Then she knelt before the chest. Before long, the room filled with the shrieking sound of tearing fabric.

  Finally, she returned to him, stopping at the table to retrieve one of the bottles. She held it up. “Whisky. This bottle is one of Torean’s.” Her lips twisted wryly. “I daresay Innes Munroe single handedly keeps my cousin’s distillers busy.”

  He simply watched her.

  “I’m going to pour some of it over the wound. It’ll hurt like hell.”

  His eyes widened at hearing such language from someone so refined and petite, but the strength of the word combined with the way she said it was enough to make him believe that she didn’t exaggerate in her prediction of the pain she would inflict.

  “Too bad,” he murmured. “I thought you’d brought it for me to drink.”

  Her lips curled as she turned to remove the pot from the fire. She bunched a piece of linen in her hand and dipped it into the hot water. Then she poured a generous portion of whisky into the pot, and Logan whistled out a breath, shaking his head.

  “Too bad all this fine whisky must go to waste, eh?”

  “Mmm, you read my mind.” Though he doubted he was as en amored of whisky as the Munroe bastard.

  “It isn’t difficult. You’re a man, and you think like one.”

  If she knew that so confidently, did she also know how she drove him to the brink? How hard watching her had made him? Beneath his plaid, his cock ached, begged for relief. It was enough to make him anticipate with relish the forthcoming sting of the whisky on his wound.

  She raised the cloth. “You must hold still.”

  “I hardly think a tiny bit of a woman wielding whisky is liable to move me,” he scoffed.

  “Don’t be so certain—MacDonald spirits make a formidable weapon. But”—she leaned forward and lowered her voice—“here is the family secret: A MacDonald whisky will prevent vile ill hu mors from attacking your body.”

  He raised a brow. “Is that so?”

  “Aye. Now you must remain very still while I clean the wound.”

  He grunted and held his leg stiff, every muscle tensed to hold it in place, no matter what she intended to do.

  She held the bottle over his leg, then upended it.

  “Gah!” he yelled. He managed—just barely—to keep his leg from flailing and kicking her in the face.

  He clenched his teeth. Hell, that stung.

  She gave him a grim smile. “I told you.”

  “Just get on with it,” he said through a tight jaw.

  She bent down, p
ressed the cloth to the wound and . . . good God . . . scrubbed at it. He curled his fingers, gathering fistfuls of plaids in his hands.

  “Tell me about your family,” she said, as if to divert his mind from the pain.

  His stomach plummeted, and he very nearly groaned aloud. She couldn’t know it, but this topic hurt worse than any physical pain she could inflict upon him.

  Closing his eyes, he recited the basic information about himself. “My mother died when I was young. I was raised by my father and my older brother. My father died two years ago. My brother and I joined the rebellion this past summer.”

  “Where is your brother now?”

  He fought not to grimace from the pain. “Dead.”

  Her hands stilled. “Oh, Logan. I’m sorry.”

  “His wife and children . . .” He paused. It was now his duty to care for his sister-i n-l aw and her three daughters, just as it was his duty to manage his brother’s tacksmen and tenants. Determination to do his duty for his lands and people—and the women who were now his only family—was what drove him to first stay alive, then escape from Argyll’s men and trudge over two hundred miles north in the dead of winter.

  “They are all alone now,” she finished quietly.

  He should still be moving, Logan realized. He’d already delayed too long. Guilt stabbed at him—he’d scarcely thought about his driving need to rush home since he’d encountered Maggie MacDonald in the snow. For the first time since the battle, he’d let go of his single-m inded urgency.

  Her brow furrowed as she focused on his leg and removed a tiny piece of gravel from his wound.

  Maggie had softened him. Her presence had comforted him. Ultimately, he couldn’t regret the interruption to his journey home. Seeing to Maggie’s safety and well-being was worth the delay of a few days.

  Gently, she folded the cloth over his thigh. “Did your brother die at Sheriffmuir?”

  “Aye.” He closed his eyes against the memory of watching the cannonball tearing through his brother’s chest, and a shudder twisted through his body like a screw.

  Maggie nodded tightly, then lapsed into silence as she painstakingly cleaned the wound, removing bits of debris he hadn’t realized had been embedded in the injury since the battle.

  As she worked, Logan studied her hair, her face, the way her lips pursed in concentration. A light sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. A wee freckle near her left eyebrow disappeared in the crease between her brows when she frowned.

  “There!” Rocking back on her heels, she tossed the soiled rag back into the pot. “Now we must give it a few moments to dry, and then I’ll wrap it.”

  He began to rise, but she placed her hand flat on his chest, pushing him back to the bed. She scowled down at him. “What do you think you are doing?”

  He gave her a sheepish look. “I could use some of that whisky now, I think.”

  “You stay right there. I’ll fetch it.”

  She retrieved the bottle from the floor and went to the table to pour some into a cup. He studied her profile. The rounded shape of her jaw, the gently sloping nose. Her unruly hair fell across her face, and she shoved it out of the way as she turned to bring him the cup.

  “Thank you.” His lips curved up as he took it from her. It was such a rare expression for him, it felt odd, as if he were forced to crack through a thin layer of ice over his face before the smile could form.

  She sat beside him and prodded his leg. “Good. It’s dry. I’ll wrap it, then.” Taking a strip of linen from the pile at the bottom of the bed, she began to wind it round his leg.

  Logan set his cup on the floor and eased onto his back, lifting his leg from the blanket so she could wrap beneath it. He nearly smiled again as he watched her, for she assiduously kept her eyes on his wound, not allowing them to travel higher to peek beneath his plaid, where his wayward cock, revived after its respite during the wound cleaning, grew more insistent by the second.

  She finished wrapping his leg in silence, then went to tend the fire. She was so beautiful. Unconscious, she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, but from the moment she’d opened those blue eyes and faced him without any semblance of fear, he’d been entranced.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas, isn’t it?” she said quietly, still facing the flames.

  Logan frowned. The days had melded together since he had begun to walk north, but he tried to keep count. “Aye, I think so.”

  “Today, then, is Christmas Eve, and we don’t have a Yule log to burn through the night.” She turned to him, her eyes bright. “Nevertheless, we must keep the peat burning until dawn. My mother always insisted upon it when I was a lass, for she said the elves are out this night, and a strong fire is the only way to keep them away.”

  The way she smiled at him, slightly pensive, slightly wry, made Logan’s body tighten all over.

  When he’d first brought her in from the cold, he’d stripped her naked. Then, the need to save her had kept his baser impulses in check. As he worked, he’d resisted reacting to the curve of her hip, her narrow waist, the creamy mounds of her breasts. He’d kept his focus on warming her. Nevertheless, as he’d tried to infuse his body heat into her, he couldn’t help but revel in the smooth softness of her skin, in her utter femininity. She was soft where he was hard, smooth where he was rough, narrow where he was wide, delicate where he was large.

  Now, despite the bruises, she was whole and healthy, and as vibrant as anyone he’d ever seen. Just looking upon her, even clothed as she was in a shapeless plaid, made his blood heat to a boil. And right now, as she gazed up at him, the firelight haloing her head, a light flush drifted across her pale cheekbones and her eyes shone with some emotion—was it longing?

  Was it possible she wanted him, too?

  Logan nodded gravely. “Aye, we’ll keep the fire going. Wouldn’t want elves filching the whisky.”

  She grinned, and blood roared through his veins. Every inch of his skin burned with the urge to touch her.

  Tearing his gaze away, he rose and yanked on his jacket, then gathered his plaid over his shoulder without returning his focus to her. If he looked, he didn’t know what he might feel compelled to do. He had to get away from her, even for just a few minutes, to soothe the edginess crawling beneath his skin. The perfect excuse came to him as he worked the row of buttons on his jacket. “I must search for your brooch.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. I didn’t know about your leg when I agreed—”

  “I told you I would search today, and I will,” he interrupted her. “Stay inside, and I’ll be back before dark.”

  “No!”

  He turned to her, raising a brow.

  “I . . . I’ll go with you.”

  “It’s too dangerous. It’s going to storm again.”

  She shrugged. “You said the place where you found me wasn’t far away.”

  “It’s far too cold to risk it. And your clothes—”

  “—are completely dry,” she announced, smugly victorious. She yanked her stockings from the ceiling and pulled them on.

  Sighing in resignation, he went to bank the fire. By the time he finished, she’d secured her stockings and dropped her shift over her head. Clearly she’d had much practice in dressing before others, for he only caught a glimpse of pale flesh as the plaid fell to the floor and the shift covered her nakedness. She retrieved the plaid and wrapped it around her body, finishing by fastening it with the borrowed pin. Then she strode to the trunk and removed the too-large men’s leather boots.

  Once she’d finished lacing the boots on as tightly as possible, she rose and smiled at him. “Are you ready, then?”

  Logan opened the door and turned his face up into the gently falling snow, allowing the coldness to collide with the heat boiling through him.

  Closing his eyes, he prayed for temperance.

  The place where Logan had found her looked different in daylight, but from the recesses of her mind, Maggie dredged up the memory of the small, sheer rock bl
uff that she’d believed would shelter her from the storm.

  She stared at the outcropping and shook her head in disbelief. “I must have been mad to think I’d be safe here.”

  Logan stood a few steps away from her, carrying the shovel he’d found leaning on the outside wall of the cottage. “The cold addled your head.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body, and Logan turned to her. His expression was guarded. Shuttered. “But you’re safe now.”

  The realization struck her like a brick in the stomach. If it hadn’t been for him, she would have died in the snow. She hadn’t truly believed it until this moment. She blinked hard. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head, and a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I lost your brooch.”

  “But you saved me.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I suppose that’s more important.”

  She was human, after all. She’d never felt so vulnerable as she did at this moment, staring at the place she might have died if not for the stranger standing nearby.

  She studied Logan’s stiff, hardened features, tight lips, and dark eyes. He wasn’t a stranger anymore. He’d saved her life. He’d suffered war, capture, injury, grief, and imprisonment in the past few weeks, but he’d rescued her from certain death and made certain she recovered from her ordeal. All along he’d listened to her. He’d treated her with respect.

  She trusted him.

  As she stared at him, she realized she was shaking. It was a deep shiver that originated in her bones.

  Logan released a harsh breath, dropped the shovel, and in two long strides, he stood in front of her. Reaching out, he pulled her tightly against his warm, hard body.

  She couldn’t resist his touch anymore. She didn’t want to. His powerful embrace was so welcome, so comforting. She wanted to crawl right into his heat and stay there.

  Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he murmured, “You’re more important than anything, Maggie.”

  She stiffened in shock. His words sucked the breath from her, leaving her unable to speak.

  Abruptly, he pulled away, taking a step back. A light flush darkened his cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “We should search. Do you remember where you dropped it?”