Mhàiri’s Yuletide Wish

by Cathy MacRae

  Mhàiri blinked again. “Of course. I invited him.”

  Michaell groaned. “How could ye? Ye know he and I dinnae get on well.”

  “Ye meant to marry without his blessing? What are ye thinking, Michaell?”

  He shoved his chest out. “Just because ye and yer uncle get along doesnae mean everyone else does.”

  Mhàiri grew very still, the irritation in his voice creating a hollow in her belly. “Are ye that upset, Michaell? Do ye not wish to marry me?”

  He heaved a great sigh. “That isnae what I meant. I cannae wait to call ye my wife and was in a fine mood until I received word a few moments ago that he would be here before the noon hour and to wait the wedding on his arrival.”

  “I’m sorry, Michaell. Please dinnae be cross. I dinnae know how much this would upset ye. I thought it might help matters between ye if ye shared a celebration.”

  “To have him ruin my wedding day?” Michaell frowned. “’Tis I who am sorry, Mhàiri. ’Tis not yer fault ye dinnae know how overbearing he is, and how much I wanted to do something this important without him looking over my shoulder, telling me how to do it better.”

  Mhàiri tilted her head. “’Tis not like he’ll join us here tonight,” she teased. Stepping closer, she drew a fingertip down the front of his unlaced tunic.

  A smile threatened Michaell’s mouth. “’Twill be a challenge to make love to my wife with my da in the same house. ’Tis a daunting image.” He gently nudged her forehead, tilting her face upward. He slid his lips across her brow, nibbling her nose lightly as he skimmed past.

  Mhàiri’s heart fluttered as she waited breathlessly for his kiss. Her hands fisted in his tunic, betraying her impatience as he took his time, caressing her cheek before settling on the corner of her mouth, light as a butterflee.

  She moaned and stretched up on her toes, sliding against him as she reached to deepen the kiss. His arms closed about her, tucking her tight, claiming her. Fingers wove through the loose braid at the back of her head, one palm splayed across the small of her back.

  Closer. She wanted to be closer. Nothing could ever go wrong as long has he held her close.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  The morning meal was delayed as the kitchen adjusted for the Kerr’s late arrival. Mhàiri’s stomach rumbled when Agnes set the covered platter on the table beneath one window. Henry leapt from the bed, beating Mhàiri to the table, stubby tail beating the air furiously.

  “Cook sent ye a bone, laddie,” Agnes said, coaxing the pup forward. Henry eyed the meaty bone in Agnes’ hand and, seeing no harm in making a new friend—especially one bearing such a succulent gift—he politely took the bone and retreated beneath the bed.

  “I’ll need to remember to retrieve that,” Agnes said as she straightened. “Ye dinnae wish to smell that in a sennight.”

  “I doubt there will be much left of it,” Mhàiri laughed, hearing Henry’s teeth as they worked the bone. She sat on a stool next to the table and pulled the linen cloth onto her lap. She made short work of the steaming bowl of porridge and mulled wine, sighing as her belly signaled its satisfaction.

  “That should hold ye until the wedding luncheon, late though ’twill be,” Agnes noted as she refilled Mhàiri’s mug. “We dinnae wish to overburden yer belly—brides are known to be nervous, aye?”

  “I’m not nervous,” Mhàiri said. “I cannae wait to be married to Michaell. He was my verra best friend as a child, and I am happy to know he will be my husband.”

  “’Tis a rare thing to find such contentment, lass. I am happy for ye. But dinnae expect things to continue as they were when ye were a wean. Men arenae the same once they’re grown.” She shrugged. “Some wee blighters become more sensible, and some quiet ones become quite rowdy.” She fixed a pointed look on Mhàiri. “But they all want their time in bed with their wives. Do ye have any questions about that?”

  Mhàiri struggled to contain her laugh. She’d already noticed the difference between Michaell the foster lad and Michaell, lord of Siller Stane. The changes were startling, but they did not frighten her. Quite the opposite. They excited her. Not that she’d admit as much to Agnes.

  “I believe I’ll have my curiosity appeased ere the day is out,” she murmured, her cheeks heating.

  Agnes cleared her throat. “Aye. Well, let’s take a look at yer dress. If it needs anything, we must let the maids know now.”

  She retrieved the gown from the chest at the foot of Mhàiri’s bed where it had been carefully folded among layers of muslin to keep it from wrinkling. The fabric rustled softly as she held it up for inspection. The dark red velvet glowed warmly, white fur lining the deep cuffs, and hem. Gold embroidery twinkled amid the plush cloth and trimmed the scooped neckline.

  “’Twas ma’s dress. I saw her in it twice—though she wore it at her wedding as well. I thought she looked like a princess.”

  “And so will ye, lassie,” Agnes murmured. She spread the gown across the bed, taking care to draw the flowing train from the floor. She draped it over the gown’s skirt, inspecting it closely. Satisfied at last, she gave a nod. “I dinnae believe it needs another brushing, and the seams appear intact. The lads will have a tub and hot water for ye in a trice, if I have to march them up here myself. Settle doon and dinnae fash over a thing whilst I make certain everything is ready for ye.”

  Mhàiri sank onto the edge of the bed, fingering the soft fur at the dress’s neckline. The brooch would be lovely here. She rose and crossed to the chest, pulling her ma’s jewelry box from the depths. The brooch’s stones glittered as she lifted the lid and her mind grew light as calm descended.

  A tap at the door sounded and she closed the lid, placing the box back in the chest. She latched the chest as Agnes opened the door, admitting four braw lads laden with buckets of steaming water. Two more wrestled a wooden tub into the room, placing it before the fireplace. After emptying their buckets, they trooped back out the door.

  The faint aroma of roses drifted from the tub as Agnes added oil to the water, and Mhàiri slipped out of her robe and chemise into the luxury of the hot water.

  She was dimly aware of light scrambling noises, then a soft thump. Agnes screamed.

  “Get off, ye wee scunner!”

  Mhàiri bolted upright. Agnes leaned across the bed, her ample skirts swinging as she pounded on the mattress. Henry sat atop Mhàiri’s dress, eying Agnes indignantly as she tried to shoo him from the bed. With a wounded look, Henry grabbed the bone he’d dropped on the train of Mhàiri’s gown and hopped to the floor.

  Agnes smoothed her hands across the cloth. “I’ll have a maid brush where he crushed it, and I dinnae believe the stain from the bone will be noticed. Mayhap ’twill dry quickly.”

  Mhàiri frowned at the hapless pup. “Mayhap ’twould be best if Henry spent the rest of the day—and night—in a nice warm stall.”

  * * *

  The sun’s rays lit the snow in the yard before the kirk with the brilliance of a thousand diamonds. Mhàiri blinked at the sight of the throng below, awaiting her appearance. She hurried to the chest and pulled the jewelry box from the depths. Opening the lid, she stared at the sight of her ma’s pins and necklaces. But the brooch was nowhere to be found. Had it shifted deeper in the box? She ran a finger through the gold and jewels, but the brooch did not appear.

  “Agnes . . . .”

  The woman approached, peering over her shoulder.

  “Have ye seen a gold brooch with sapphires and rubies?”

  Agnes knelt beside her. “I dinnae see it. Och, this would be lovely with yer dress.”

  Mhàiri nodded absently and Agnes pulled a gold filigree necklace from the box. She draped it around Mhàiri’s neck, settling the four teardrop rubies and larger center stone along the edge of her collarbones.

  Where could the brooch be? It was here only an hour or so ago, and no one has been in the room but Agnes and me since. And she was certain Agnes had not opened the chest.

  Agne
s took her hand and lifted her to her feet. “Dinnae wrinkle yer gown, lass. Yer lad’s da is here. ’Tis time.”

  Mhàiri cast one more look inside the chest, then closed the lid. She didn’t have time to worry about it now. Agnes gave her an encouraging smile and tweaked a strand of hair from her face before opening the door.

  Gregor Scott waited in the hall. A broad grin crossed his face as she approached, and he held out his arm. Mhàiri took it gratefully, her legs suddenly wobbly.

  “Yer ma and da would be proud of ye.” He cleared his throat. “Yer grandda will be watching from his window,” her uncle said. “The stairs and crowds are more than he can endure right now.”

  “I understand.” Mhàiri squeezed his arm. “Ye will make a fine Lord Scott.”

  He patted her hand. “Are ye ready?”

  She nodded, and they descended the stair together. The keep’s door was flung open to the brilliant noonday light. They paused at the threshold and a shout rose among the crowd.

  A shiver of anticipation slipped up her spine, and she clasped her uncle’s arm tighter.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  Mhàiri gave him a light shove with her shoulder. “Nae. I’m not used to being the center of attention, ’tis all.”

  “Dearling, ye will garner every lad’s stare and every lass’ envy this day. Ye are beautiful—just like yer ma.”

  Tears welled in Mhàiri’s eyes. She lifted her chin and sighed. “There’s Michaell.”

  His gaze found hers, and every worry melted from Mhàiri’s heart. She could scarcely wait to be at his side, twine her fingers through his, claim him as her husband.

  His brothers fanned out behind him, eyes dancing as they attempted a solemnity she suspected came difficult for them. A man she did not know stood just behind Michaell’s shoulder, his stocky build resembling William more than Michaell, though his dark red hair bespoke him as Michaell’s kin. The Kerr. His eyebrows drew together as he stared intently at Mhàiri, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. But his grin relieved her worry, and she took the first steps of the short journey to Michaell’s side.

  A titter rippled through the crowd and Mhàiri jerked to a halt. She tried to take another step, but her gown pulled tight against her legs.

  Yip!

  Mhàiri spun about, tightening her skirts further. Henry stared at her, feet braced firmly on the short train of her gown, tongue lolling to the side. She glared at him and gave an impatient tug. Thrown off balance, the pup plopped onto his bottom, staring comically at the thick white fur trim on Mhàiri’s dress that waved invitingly.

  “Och! Henry!” She jerked at the train again. Henry pounced, dancing on her train as though a horde of rats had buried beneath the plush cloth. Mhàiri looked to Michaell for help. He held out his hand, amusement twinkling in his eyes. Lifting her chin, Mhàiri again started forward.

  Duncan was the first to laugh. Thomas and William’s bellows—faintly muffled behind meaty fists—quickly followed. Henry came to attention, cocking his head at the rumbling sounds. He spun about, still sliding across the ground on the trailing hem of Mhàiri’s gown, barked at the fur, then plopped to his belly, muzzle buried in the luxurious trim.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, Mhàiri took her final steps, dragging the wee beastie along to Michaell’s side. His grin bespoke his humor as well as his love for her. Gregor placed her hand in Michaell’s, and, with a quick kiss to her cheek, left them to face the priest.

  “I told ye he could escape anything,” Michaell whispered.

  The ceremony was brief. In a happy daze, she replied to the priest’s questions, signed the wedding contract, and accepted Michaell’s kiss before a cheering crowd.

  The banquet contained more dishes than the large gathering could consume. Michaell’s da, seated to his left, rose. William and Duncan pounded the tables with their fists, demanding the room’s attention. Michaell winced, bracing for what could only be a round of chiding. What would his da find fault with this time? Marriage at a young age? Lack of maturity? Henry’s antics? He found Mhàiri’s hand beneath the table and squeezed it gently. She gazed at him, understanding in her eyes.

  Robert Kerr lifted his mug as the roar of noise faded.

  “I’m verra proud to add another beautiful young woman to our clan. Mhàiri, ye are a welcome addition. Michaell has done himself proud.” A cheer rose. Michaell’s cheeks heated.

  At least he approves of my choice of bride.

  “Not only do we strengthen our ties to the Burns and Scott clans, but we no longer have Richard Henderson on our border. Well done, lad! The man has been a stone in my craw for years, and it took my youngest son to make a semblance of peace between us. Michaell, I am eternally grateful to ye.”

  He gave Michaell a half-bow as he returned to his seat. “I would be pleased if ye would allow me to replace the sheep and cattle required to send Henderson packing as a wedding gift.”

  Dazed by his father’s unprecedented approval, Michaell simply nodded. Mhàiri beamed and snuggled against his shoulder.

  Michaell’s brothers at last arranged themselves at the foot of the stairwell as he and Mhàiri escaped to their room. The raucous laughter and other merriment muffled almost to silence as Michaell closed the door. Mhàiri opened her arms and stepped into his embrace. He crushed her to his chest, his mouth meeting hers with a hunger that had his heart thudding an impatient beat. With a soft groan, he forced himself to slow. He sat on the edge of the bed, drawing Mhàiri with him to stand between his knees, his thumbs circling the backs of her hands in a gentle caress.

  “’Tis been a long day, my love,” he said. “I am relieved it has ended so well.”

  Mhàiri tilted her head. “And what, exactly, did ye expect? How could our wedding end any way but well?”

  Michaell grinned, suddenly aware his worries had almost stolen his most precious memories. He wouldn’t allow them to tarnish his first moments with Mhàiri as his wife.

  He laughed. “Och, I burst into my betrothed’s room before the wedding.”

  “Unchaperoned,” Mhàiri chided darkly. She stepped closer. Her heavy skirt bumped against his cock. Michaell cleared his throat.

  “I argued with ye about inviting my da to our wedding. Ye were right to do so.”

  “He loves ye. And he’s proud of ye.” Mhàiri knelt between his knees, resting her elbows on his thighs.

  Why did his da’s approval suddenly seem so . . . trivial? And why bother discussing it?

  “And yer brothers laughed at the wedding.” Mhàiri ran one hand through her hair, lifting the heavy golden mass from her shoulders and flipping it casually down her back.

  Michaell stared at the smooth, pale skin, the sweep of her throat to the curve of her breasts. Rubies dangled from a golden necklace, twinkling in the candlelight. He carefully cupped her cheek in one palm, then slid down the column of her neck, burying his fingers beneath the neckline of her gown.

  Mhàiri rose, drawing him to his feet. She unbuckled his belt, then presented her back. Even with trembling hands, he didn’t muck up the laces, and Mhàiri faced him again, shrugging her shoulders forward to loosen the gown further. With seemingly no effort, the cloth slid slowly off her shoulders, stuttered at the swell of her breasts, then fell free to puddle at her feet. The chemise beneath was nearly sheer, lightly veiling her skin, hinting broadly at shadows and curves beneath.

  Michaell shoved his belt free and kicked off his boots. He quickly stepped out of his clothing, stomping his breeches into submission when one leg snared about his ankle. Mhàiri pulled her chemise over her head and tossed it onto a nearby chair. The speculative look in her eyes sent his cock into a surge of anticipation.

  They stepped together again, smothering a laugh as his chin bumped her forehead. Michaell lifted her into his arms and laid her across the bed. His brothers’ admonitions—those which weren’t contradictory and seemed to make sense—rattled in the back of his head.

  Go slow.
/>   Not likely.

  Dinnae fall on her like a ravening wolf.

  Fine.

  Tell her ye love her.

  “I love ye, Mhàiri. I want to make love to ye.”

  “Kiss me again, Michaell. And dinnae ever let me go.”

  * * *

  Mhàiri stretched, the ache in her muscles a combination of unaccustomed activities and positions—including laying sprawled atop a man whose gentle snore made her smile. The ache was a tender reminder of both the ferocity and the gentleness Michaell had shown as he’d claimed her as his wife. Tingles of pleasure swirled through her belly, all the way to her toes. She smiled and slipped to Michaell’s side. His breath hitched and the snoring stopped.

  Too sleepy to tempt him into another round of love-making, she let her eyelids close. The mattress shifted and something trailed lightly from the tip of her nose to her lips. She caught the tip of Michaell’s finger neatly between her teeth and opened her eyes to his lazy grin. He tugged gently and she released him, humming with pleasure as he continued drawing a line over her chin and down her throat. He paused, hooking a finger under the necklace she still wore.

  “This is a beautiful piece. I would have thought ye’d wear yer ma’s brooch.”

  “I intended to. I set the brooch back in the box whilst I bathed. When I looked again, ’twas gone.”

  “’Twas stolen?”

  Mhàiri cast her thoughts back. “I dinnae see how. ’Twas only Agnes with me in the room. And she dinnae open the chest.”

  He rose onto one elbow. “Ye are certain?”

  “Aye. ’Tis strange. I dinnae know it existed until I needed it. Now, I cannae find it.”

  “We will find it again.”

  But the brooch’s absence did not distress her. She smiled warmly at Michaell and opened her arms to him again.

  “Dinnae fash. I have everything I want here in my hands.”

  THE END

  ABOUT THE BROOCH

  Holy relics were viewed, not as an item of worship, but of veneration—much like cherishing your great-great-grandmother’s ring—though many relics had a history of being involved with miracles such as healing. Following various Scripture passages in which such articles were involved with miracles (the hem of Jesus’ robe healing a woman of a bleeding issue Matthew 9:20-22, or a dead man’s body coming to life after touching Elisha’s bones 2Kings 13:21), relics were seen as both holy and necessary, and it was a requirement from the time of Charlemagne (800 CE) to as recent as 1959, that all Roman Catholic Church altars contain a relic.