A Highlander Christmas

by Dawn Halliday, Cindy Miles, Sophie Renwick

  “When do you think the storm will end?”

  “Can’t storm all winter. A day or two longer most likely.”

  “Then what?” she whispered. Emotion thinned her voice, and she realized she didn’t want to leave this place. She didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want him to leave her.

  He paused for a long moment. Finally he answered, in a voice as low and thin as her own, “Then I will take you home.”

  Chapter Six

  They delayed longer than they should have, Maggie knew. It had been a full twenty-f our hours since the last snowfall. They’d been at Innes Munroe’s cottage for nearly a week now— the last four days spent almost solely in bed talking and making love until both of them were sore and languid, drunk with pleasure.

  Two days before Hogmanay, the sun shone high and bright in the sky. Maggie stood in the doorway, staring out at the springlike scene. Melting snow dripped from the eaves, each drop twinkling like a gem in the glare of the sun.

  Logan came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. She glanced back at him.

  “We must go down the mountain today,” he said quietly. “Your family will be worried for you. They’ll be searching.”

  She raised her hand to cover one of his. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Nor do I. But we have families. We have duties. Both of us.”

  “Aye,” she agreed. Yet his duties far outweighed her own.

  Logan had said he’d take her north with him, but that was only out of duty should she be carrying his child. That was no longer a possibility, for her lack of pregnancy had been confirmed this morning by the onset of her flux.

  Not once had Logan suggested she travel north with him because he wanted her. It was foolish to hope that he would ask her to go with him. He had a family to care for and lands to govern. Maggie knew he liked her, but perhaps he saw her as a distraction from his new responsibilities. Nevertheless, a large part of her craved to hear him say he wanted her at his side.

  He was an honorable man, a just man, and he simply intended to see her home safe before leaving to shoulder the burden of his new duties. She couldn’t fault him for that, and she had no right to demand anything of him.

  She was the laird’s cousin, but she belonged to no one, and she hadn’t wanted to . . . until now. Her friends and neighbors had called Maggie daft for preferring to be alone over marrying again. But she’d been repulsed by the idea, for she knew no one who struck her as remotely marriageable, so she had stretched her mourning for Duneghall for as long as she could.

  She traced her fingers over Logan’s thick, long ones. The thought of separating from him forever terrified her, but he did need to return to his sister-i n-l aw, his nieces, and his tenants. And because she wasn’t carrying his child, he would leave her. Soon.

  Sighing, she shut the door, turned, and wrapped her arms around him.

  They set out late in the morning. The sun hung in the sky as if suspended from strings, bathing the pristine white slopes in a golden wash. They paused to search the spot where she’d lost her brooch for another hour, to no avail; then they descended the mountain, walking into the late afternoon.

  The sun brushed against the treetops when they glimpsed the shimmering walls of the MacDonald castle through the leafless tree limbs in a deep-cut ravine below. The Christmas storm had reached the lower altitudes, and the roofs of the cottages surrounding the castle appeared sugar-coated and homey, with puffs of smoke curling from their chimneys.

  They’d been silent for the better part of an hour. Logan had walked away from the happiest week of his life and now steamed with regret that they’d had to leave the cottage. If only they could have remained there forever.

  Dreams never lasted, though. Duty called both of them home, and neither he nor Maggie would shirk their responsibilities to their respective clans.

  Logan studied the MacDonald seat as they approached. It was a six-storied multiturreted castle built in the last century, compact and tall in comparison to its crumbling ancient counterparts. Sunlight reflected off its granite walls and sparkled on its steep slate roofs, sending glimmering light cascading over the more mundane thatched structures scattered nearby.

  As Logan and Maggie strode along the shoveled path leading down the final stretch of mountain, a rider appeared in the distance. Two other men on horseback followed not far behind. Logan’s fingers tightened on the barrel of his musket, but within moments, the lead man’s angular features came into focus, and Maggie gasped.

  “It’s Torean,” she whispered.

  “Maggie!” the man shouted, recognizing her. He spoke to his horse, urging it to a canter. Logan gazed warily at the men as they approached. Reining short, Torean MacDonald smoothly dismounted. The other two held back, remaining seated on their stomping, impatient mounts.

  “Maggie!” the man cried again. He gripped her shoulders and gave her a small shake as if to test whether she was an apparition. His eyes grazed over her partially undressed form and the too-l arge leather boots. “My God, Maggie. I thought you were dead.”

  “Is that what Innes said?” she asked dryly.

  “Aye. Well, he returned just two days ago, saying he’d been searching for you . . .” His voice trailed off, and his blue eyes skittered away, coming to an abrupt stop as they fixed on Logan.

  “This is Logan Douglas,” Maggie said. “He . . . saved me. Took me in near frozen from the snow. Logan, this is my cousin, Torean MacDonald.”

  Logan inclined his head at the laird but didn’t speak. He could see the family resemblance to Maggie in the dark hair, blue eyes and shape of the jaw, but Torean MacDonald was tall where Maggie was slight, with stick-straight hair and an overlong face in the shape of an exaggerated oval. He had an awkward, gangling look about him, as if he hadn’t quite finished growing into his adult features.

  “Where are you from?” MacDonald asked.

  “Near Wick,” Logan returned easily enough. “I’m on my way home from Sheriffmuir.”

  The young man continued to assess him, his head tilted slightly. “You were captured at Sheriffmuir?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you escaped from the governmentals?”

  “I did.”

  “Well done!” MacDonald gave him a sharp nod and glanced at Maggie as if suddenly remembering her presence. “And I thank you for caring for my cousin. I should be honored if you would join us for a night before you continue on your journey home.”

  “Thank you,” Logan said, though he would have stayed whether invited or not. He had no intention of leaving Maggie before he confronted the Munroe bastard.

  Clapping his gloved hands, Torean returned his attention to Maggie. “Come, cousin. I’ll take you home.”

  He held his hand out to her, but she merely stared at it, hesitating. “Torean”—she looked up at his face, a deep frown furrowing her brow—“did you sanction what Innes did? Did he take me from my cottage on . . . on your suggestion?” Her voice wavered, but she held firm, and Logan gazed at MacDonald to assess his reaction.

  Torean’s blue eyes darted to Logan, then fixed on his cousin. “This isn’t the time to discuss it, Maggie. Come. Why, you’re half naked, and those boots—”

  Maggie’s fists clenched at her sides. “We will discuss it now. I’ll not be moving until we do.”

  The man released a sigh. “Very well. Aye, I told him he should take you, but—”

  “You bastard!” She flew at him, her little fists pummeling at his chest. Logan crossed his arms and watched, prepared to cut in to protect her should this fool make a move to hurt her.

  He didn’t. MacDonald merely plucked her away from his body and held her at arm’s length as she kicked at his shins. “You foolish, stupid idiot!” She stomped on his booted foot. “This is your fault! He tried to rape me—do you know that, Torean? How could you encourage such a brute? He . . . he hurt me.”

  “Oh, come now,” MacDonald soothed. “He can’t be so very bad. Surely yo
u’re exagger—”

  “He’s a despicable worm,” Maggie spat.

  “He was distressed when he lost you. He’s been roaming the countryside for days searching for you—”

  “Nonsense! He was in a warm bed tupping whores at Mal muirie’s.”

  Torean frowned in apparent confusion. “He has been so distraught, Maggie. He’ll be so happy—”

  “Happy?” Maggie gasped. “It is because of him I was in danger to begin with.”

  Torean stiffened, and his voice hardened. “He’s my friend and my tacksman. And he’s a perfect match for you.”

  “He’s a loathsome brute, and I will die before I allow him to touch me again!”

  Torean released a breath through pursed lips. He glanced at Logan, clearly discomfited by the personal nature of this conversation in the presence of a stranger, and then returned his gaze to his cousin, lowering his voice. “We need this match, Maggie. We need to keep the clans tightly connected, especially with—”

  Logan took a step toward them. “Did you hear what she said?” he snarled. “The man hurt her.”

  Torean’s gaze shot back to Logan. “This is a family matter. Surely none of your—”

  “I saw what he did to her,” Logan said icily. “Look at her eye, for Christ’s sake. There is also a dagger wound to her chest, and her leg was so badly bruised she could scarcely walk.”

  Torean’s lip curled. “My cousin can be rather feisty. I daresay it’s likely Innes’s actions were more a result of self-defense than violence.”

  Maggie gasped. Her eyes gleamed, but her face went utterly pale. She smacked Torean so hard on the shoulder that he stepped backward, frowning, and raised his hand to rub the area.

  “How could you say that?” she asked in a low, hurt-filled voice.

  “I won’t let it happen again,” Logan said, his voice quiet and grim. “I’ll see the man dead before I allow him to hurt her.”

  Torean turned his assessing gaze on him once again. “Who are you, exactly?”

  “Logan Douglas.”

  “He’s a laird of several thousand acres granted to his ancestors by King James II,” Maggie provided.

  Logan fought a flinch. It was unsettling to hear her proclaim his status in order for her cousin to treat him with a measure of respect when less than two months ago he’d owned nothing. Yet it was the way of the world. A man’s worth was measured by the land he owned and the number of cattle he kept.

  Logan narrowed his eyes at Torean MacDonald, who possessed far more than he did, but thus far had done nothing to earn his respect.

  “Is that so?” Torean fingered his smooth chin thoughtfully, as if to pretend it was as bearded as a wise old man’s. “And you’ll cause bloodshed on my lands to keep my man from marrying my cousin, even though I have already signed the betrothal documents?”

  Maggie groaned. “Oh, Torean. You haven’t!”

  “I have.” Again the young laird fixed his gaze on Logan. “Well?”

  “I will do whatever is necessary to protect your cousin.” He’d kill Innes Munroe without a shred of guilt or regret, if that kept him from hurting Maggie.

  “Hmm.” Torean tapped his chin, and then his expression slowly transformed until excitement flared in his eyes. “Hogmanay is in two nights. The clan has gathered. I daresay everyone would enjoy a little sport.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Suspicion clouded Maggie’s face.

  Torean shrugged. “Well, if this stranger chooses bloodshed, I must at least ascertain it is honorable, controlled bloodshed.”

  “Torean—”

  “A duel,” the laird pronounced. He turned to Logan. “What say you?”

  Logan shrugged. “I’m prepared to do what’s necessary to keep Maggie safe.”

  “Looks like you have a champion, cousin.”

  Maggie looked from one man to the other in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, no. Absolutely not. Hell will freeze over before I’ll allow Innes Munroe to touch me again, so not only is this an absurd idea—i t is a meaningless one, too.”

  Logan disagreed. In fact, he thought it the ideal solution. He could stop Munroe honorably, without rousing the enmity of either the MacDonalds or the Munroes. The MacDonald clan was a powerful one, one that he’d rather keep on his good side.

  “Logan . . .” She’d correctly gathered that he was serious, and a hint of panic edged her voice. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of your safety.”

  She blew out a breath through pursed lips. “What of yours?”

  “What of it?”

  “He could hurt you, you fool! Kill you!”

  He raised a brow. “Do you think so?”

  “Ugh!” She stomped her booted foot in the wet snow. “You are utterly arrogant.”

  Torean chuckled. “It’ll be wonderful sport, Maggie. Just think of it—everyone will be there to watch. We need the extra inspiration, you know that, after the failure of the rebellion. It’ll be a fine distraction.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. Steam puffed from her mouth with each breath. “Your ‘friend’ could be killed, too, Torean, and all you think of is sport and distraction. Men! I shall never understand any of you.”

  She pulled her plaid tight and stomped off down the path, forcing the two waiting men to move their mounts aside as she barreled through them, kicking up flurries of wet snow in her wake.

  Logan exchanged a glance with Torean and then made to follow her, but Torean clasped his arm and pulled him back. “Let her go, man. She’s in a fit of righteous rage, something every man should avoid at all costs.”

  Logan stared after her. Hell. He didn’t want her to go. Would he ever see her again? Hold her again?

  Yes. Damn it, yes.

  Torean grabbed his horse’s reins and then turned back to Logan, chuckling. “You look like a man in need of a pint. Come, I’ll walk to the tavern with you. We’ve good ale here.”

  Chapter Seven

  The morning of Hogmanay dawned clear and bright. A warm sun had melted the snow, swelling the river that curved behind the castle and turning it into a brown tempest. Dampness gleamed on the barren stalks of trees a and shrubs, and churned mud covered the common areas between the castle and its out buildings. The castle women had woven rectangular wicker flats, and the men had laid them over the deepest, wettest areas so people could walk in the courtyard without sinking to their shins in mud.

  Maggie had awakened early in the guest chamber she always used when visiting Torean; it was a small, cold, stone-walled room high atop one of the turrets. Deep red-and-brown tapestries draped the walls, and a similarly colored thick carpet covered the floor from one rounded wall to the other. The bed was wider and softer than her bed at home, and the window, though narrow, was nearly as tall as she. It looked over the courtyard below, which had filled early with workers erecting the stage where Innes and Logan would duel.

  A servant woman patiently worked through the tangles in Maggie’s wild hair while she stared out the window, gazing down at the arena upon which her future would be determined.

  Freedom or slavery. She wished she had the power to make that choice for herself. Or, if not that, she wished she were strong enough to duel Innes herself.

  Maggie flattened her hand over the narrow pane of glass. Despite her misgivings about the entire affair, she thanked God for Logan. If not for him, she’d have no hope at all. Torean and Innes would have already forced her to submit to their will.

  The duel would take place before the noonday meal. Once the bloodshed was over, the MacDonalds would tumble back into the castle to eat and drink and be merry. No matter the outcome, they’d continue to celebrate long into the night, and they’d awake to a New Year with rolling stomachs and pale complexions.

  Maggie didn’t fear Logan would lose. He was a pillar of strength compared to Innes Munroe. Taller, more muscular, and certainly he possessed more experience in battle. Yet last night at dinner, Innes didn’t look the l
east bit nervous. In fact, he’d boasted of his imminent victory. Did that mean he possessed a skill with swords Maggie didn’t know about? His confidence made her feel uncomfortable and edgy, as though she might jump out of her own skin.

  A knock sounded on the thick planks of her door, and Maggie looked up in surprise. People didn’t often venture up this far. The reason she’d chosen this room so long ago was for its comparative privacy in the bustling environs of the castle.

  As she turned from the window, the servant bustled to answer the door. When she swung it open, Logan’s body instantly overwhelmed the tiny space.

  Frightened by his towering presence, the woman stepped aside, her eyes wide. Logan didn’t seem to see her at all. His eyes met Maggie’s and his low, rumbling voice washed over her. “Good morning.”

  She couldn’t prevent the flush of heat that washed through her from being in such proximity to him. “Logan . . .” I missed you. But they’d only spent two nights apart, hadn’t they? It seemed like an eternity. “Why are you here?”

  “I wished to see you.”

  “Ah.” Glancing at the woman, Maggie gave her the signal to go. Logan stepped inside, and the servant slipped past him and disappeared. Logan shut the door behind her.

  The heat curling through Maggie intensified, prickling her skin and tightening her cheeks. She looked down to her bare toes, curling them into the thick strands of the carpet.

  “You look beautiful.”

  She glanced at her dress—a red tartan borrowed from a castle resident. “Half the population of the Highlands will soon know you were in my room,” she murmured.

  “It doesn’t matter.” His rugged palm cupped her cheek, tugging her gaze upward.

  The words she’d kept bottled up for the past two days rushed out of her. “Why, Logan? Why are you doing this? I—I don’t want you to do this for me. I don’t want you to fight.”

  “Do you fear my death? Munroe cannot kill me, Maggie.”

  “It’s not that . . .”

  “And I have agreed not to kill him, either. We have decided that it won’t be a battle to the death. I will win, and as a condition of the duel, Innes Munroe will swear to keep his distance from you forever.”