by Alexa Aston
Or any woman, for that matter, Liam had advised her with a good measure of compassion but also the brutal frankness that was his way.
Never had a Christmas season—Skye’s favorite time of the year until now—loomed as dismal and dreary. She wrinkled her nose and skimmed a glance over the well-kept room. Why, the Scots didn’t even celebrate the occasion due to some antiquated law or decree.
How could she bear December and all of the memories of Christmases past without Mama and Papa? Without the church service to celebrate Christ’s birth? The decorations and music and Yule log and delicious foods? The gifts for the less fortunate?
How—God and all the angels—could she bear it without Quinn?
Oh, Quinn, my love. If he were here, the season might hold a degree of joy after all. But he wasn’t and there was nothing—
Wait a minute.
Mayhap…yes, mayhap, she could ask Liam and Aunt Louisa if they’d permit her a few Christmas traditions. It would certainly steer her mind from woeful musings and might even cheer her a measure. Scooping Patches into her arms and nuzzling the kitten’s soft fur, she smiled as she retrieved the book as well.
Yes, that’s exactly what she’d do.
Plan a Highland Christmas celebration and cease spending her evenings waiting in vain in the library.
Chapter Five
Quinn squinted at the moonless sky as he tromped along, leading his lame horse. He’d forsworn the comfort of coach travel and the luxury of luggage for expediency. In his haste to reach Skye, he hadn’t taken the care for Benedict as he should’ve either.
Now the poor beasty suffered because of his foolhardiness. He slowed his pace and patted the horse’s neck. “Sorry I am, laddie. Ye ken I’d never deliberately bring harm to ye.”
The faithful creature pushed his shoulder. Benedict had been the only thing, other than the clothes on his back, Quinn had taken when he’d left home a decade ago as a lad of seventeen.
His heavy woolen coat, hat, scarf, and gloves did little to keep the angry, determined wind from seeping into his garments and freezing his very bones. His limbs felt leaden from fatigue and cold, and only the knowledge of what awaited him at his destination kept him trudging forward, one plodding foot in front of the other.
Too blasted bad that, unlike Liam, he didn’t tote a flask of whisky in his pocket, or he’d take a hearty nip this very minute.
Delayed several days in London and then almost a week in Edinburgh, he was long overdue at Eytone Hall. He supposed he could’ve written Skye but, truth be told, he’d likely arrive before the letter did such was the inconsistency and slowness of the post boys and the public postal service.
Skye.
So named for the Isle of Skye by her homesick mother, Skye had informed him with her usual candor. Just thinking of her warmed his innards, causing a sweet sensation similar to premium aged scotch to heat his blood and belly.
Her brilliant eyes, as bright and clear azure-colored as a summer morning, sparkled with mischief and delight, and her hair, laced with threads of gold and champagne, formed a silky blonde halo around her exquisite oval face.
He adored the way she wrinkled her pert nose in concentration and longed to touch his mouth to her berry-red lips that he’d barely resisted kissing for so many tormenting weeks.
Och, aye. My bonnie, braw Skye.
He’d known from that first devastating—slightly bashful—smile that blossomed across her dewy face that sunny September afternoon, he’d met his soulmate. Until that moment, he didn’t believe in such codswallop and numpty claptrap. He’d never jeer or mock another person or call them a clot head about love again. For when Cupid’s arrow had unerringly struck him, he fell completely, recklessly, and irrevocably in love with Skye Hendron.
A loud, scornful snort escaped him, creating a miniature cloud before his face in the frigid air.
Him—Quinn Broc Steaphan Catherwood—a loner with no family of his own other than his maternal grandmother, and a wanderer with no place he called home, except for the hospitality and benevolence of his friends, Liam MacKay and Broden McGregor, was hopelessly in love.
Enamored. Enthralled. Utterly besotted with an Englishwoman. Half-English. Her mother had been Scots, the sister of Louisa MacKay, the Dowager Baroness Penderhaven.
Nearby, something scurried away, rustling the bushes and causing Benedict to shake his head and sidestep.
“Easy, lad. Just a rabbit or a mouse. No’ too much farther.” Another hour or so.
Wild horses couldn’t have torn Quinn away from Skye after her parents’ tragic deaths. But in the tranquil weeks that followed, he’d appreciated he must put his affairs to rights and become above reproach. If he wanted to make her his own for all time and stood any chance of Liam accepting his offer for her hand.
Friend or not, Liam had made his feelings very clear about his cousin. She was off-limits to Quinn’s romantic pursuit, and he wouldn’t welcome his addresses, longtime friend or not. Actually, they were more like the brother neither had. Nonetheless, he knew Liam well enough to not doubt he’d meant what he’d said about Skye.
Quinn—Liam had said with his typical candor—wasn’t up to par by any stretch of anyone’s imagination.
Well, the old Quinn certainly wasn’t a model gentleman.
This newly reformed, upright denizen of society might be acceptable. By God, he’d be so pious, respectable, and decent, all of the saints—and even the Pope himself—would gaze upon him with a benign smile of approval.
Before meeting Skye, he would’ve sworn he’d perish from boredom if required to become upright, but a life with her made the possibility something to look forward to rather than dread. “Nothin’ I wouldna do for ye, my Skye,” he murmured into the blustery winter air.
His self-castigating chuckle rent the December night’s peaceful stillness, and Benedict twitched his ears, giving him a reproving look with his big, brown eyes that said, “Have ye lost yer bloody mind?”
Quinn chuckled again, never having felt more alive and full of optimism. Liam might take some convincing. Nae, he’ll bloody well take a great deal of convincin’. After all, he was intimately acquainted with Quinn. Knew things about him no one else did.
He knew the Quinn of old.
Not the Quinn in love with Skye.
The Quinn, who after ten years of refusing a single farthing of his inheritance, had swallowed the boulder of pride lodged in his throat and decided to accept his legacy. He’d also called upon his mother’s mother, Elspet Dunwoodie. Every bit as proud and stubborn as Quinn, Grandmama was granddaughter to an earl and Quinn’s only remaining blood relation.
It had been almost a year since he’d last seen her, having left her drawing room on a tide of frustrated anger when she’d, yet again, suggested he was a pig-headed Scot for refusing his legal bequeathment. He couldn’t let her know the godawful truth, though.
Aye, he might’ve been lawfully entitled to the fortune, but the means by which his father, and his before him, accrued the other portion of the familial wealth disgusted Quinn to his core. Both were men of such immoral repute, he’d seriously considered changing his surname to distance himself further from their foulness.
They boasted to everyone who inquired—and many who hadn’t—investments in rum and sugar had enhanced their already solid financial dynasty. That piece of their tale, spun to reflect upon them favorably, contained a degree of truth. However, what they failed to mention was the other, much more profitable and scurrilous, way they’d filled their coffers.
Home early from university, he’d ventured into his father’s office to request foolscap and ink to respond to an invitation to a house party. Unexpectedly finding the room empty, during his search for paper, Quinn had accidentally stumbled upon a journal of sorts atop his sire’s desk.
The record not only detailed the kidnapping and transporting of children and poverty-stricken and indebted adults by ship to the colonies, but also selling them as indentured serva
nts. The macabre diary detailed rapes and other assaults, victims killing themselves, and the horrific punishments inflicted upon any who resisted or tried to flee.
Without a word or his father ever knowing he’d been there, he’d left. He’d never returned home, and he never saw his father or grandfather again. What he had done was send them a single letter telling them precisely why he’d severed relations with them.
When the solicitor contacted him to inform him of his father’s death and his subsequent bequeathment, he’d mourned the latter more than the former. Quinn had expected to be disinherited. Disowned.
Even now, a decade later, bile burned the back of his throat at the atrocities they committed for coin, and nausea churned his stomach that their putrid blood flowed in his veins.
That was why as a member of a highly secret—illegal—society, he’d dedicated his life, up to this point, to the extermination of forced labor, slavery, and indentured servitude.
But, such a life was too dangerous for a married man. Hadn’t he nearly been killed half a dozen times? Nevertheless, he’d find other methods to continue the fight to help the oppressed.
As a respectable man of means with connections, he’d have the power to influence people. Profiting from the suffering of others was unconscionable and it must be put to a stop.
Truthfully, he never believed the day would come that he’d put aside his fury and hatred of his father and grandfather. But for Skye, he’d walk through molten lava. His pride was as inconsequential as thistle down.
Yes, to make her his bride, he’d willingly, eagerly, cease his wild recklessness and cede his wanderlust, for he’d finally found a home. In the heart of the most remarkable, extraordinary woman to grace God’s beautiful earth.
Skye Hendron.
He directed his attention overhead just as the clouds broke, and the moon’s silvery glow burst through. Almost like a good omen. A derisive grin tilted his mouth on one side. Since when did he believe in such nonsensical claptrap?
Nonetheless, he closed his eyelids and sent up a most fervent and sincere silent prayer that he’d be blessed with his greatest desire. Since he was turning over a new leaf, now was as good a time as any, he supposed, to explore the faith in the Almighty Skye was so committed to.
Humming a rather ribald ditty, he raised his collar higher against the mercilessly cutting wind and, hunched into his coat, tramped onward. Given the moon’s position, he guessed the time to be well past midnight. Rather rude and inconsiderate of him to arrive at Eytone Hall in the middle of the night, but he couldn’t wait one more day to see Skye.
Besides, he’d passed by the last posting house miles ago.
Quinn wouldn’t wake the household, however. As he’d done numerous times prior, he’d enter through the kitchens and find his way to his room. It wouldn’t be the first time the MacKays, or the McGregors either, had sat down to break their fast and he’d wandered in to greet them.
He quite enjoyed the astonishment on their faces.
However, his days of trotting about and being accountable to no one but himself and his superior were over. Yet an unpleasant thought he couldn’t dismiss had dogged him for days and now pulled his eyebrows together in a fierce scowl. God’s bones. Given his delay, Skye might think he’d lied to her. That he had no intention of returning. There’d been no help for his tardiness though.
After visiting Grandmama, and the tough old bird skillfully extracting a promise he’d bring Skye to meet her, he’d called upon his father’s solicitor and then The Royal Bank of Scotland.
He was a wealthy man.
Wealthier than he’d initially believed. The knowledge didn’t fill him with satisfaction. Except, the monies might persuade Liam that Quinn was a good match for Skye after all, and that he wasn’t a fortune hunter. The funds also put him in a position financially to assist those unfortunate souls without the ability to help themselves.
His final appointment had been with his superior to submit his resignation. He’d reluctantly received permission to return to civilian life, after he accomplished one last mission. That task was completed yesterday afternoon, and two lads—not more than eight years old—had been spared indentured servitude in the colonies. With only the merest regret, he’d bid his old life goodbye.
Quinn, the covert operative, was no more.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Skye awoke surprisingly refreshed and with a sense of anticipation bubbling behind her breastbone. Laying amongst the comfy pillows, Patches curled contentedly and purring at her side, she contemplated her newfound optimism.
Christmas in the Highlands.
Yes, that was what had sparked the expectancy in her.
Last night, she’d decided to see if Liam would permit her a Christmas at Eytone Hall. She rather assumed he wouldn’t deny her request. He’d been as concerned as Aunt Louisa, Kendra, and Emeline about her doldrums. And she also suspected, he knew she harbored warm sentiments for Quinn.
Compassion and sympathy for her parents’ deaths was to be expected, but she couldn’t bear Liam’s pitying looks. A flush warmed her, but she dismissed her discomfiture. Diving into holiday preparations would give her something to do and keep her mind occupied. The very thing she’d needed most to keep her riotous thoughts corralled.
Other than Quinn, of course.
With a renewed sense of vigor, and more energy than she’d had in weeks, she flung back the bedclothes much to Patches’ disconcertment. The kitten leaped to her feet, arched her back, and hissed.
At once, Skye apologized. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Soothing the miffed feline, she lifted Patches from the gold, ivory, and robin’s egg blue coverlet. After a few more murmured words of comfort and much petting, Skye set her down on a favorite pillow. With promises of special treats from the kitchen, she attended to her toilette with alacrity that surprised even her.
She truly anticipated something for the first time in months. Something besides Quinn’s return, that was.
Mentally making a list of her favorite Christmas traditions and the supplies that would need procurement, Skye dressed in another plain black gown, twisted her waist-length hair into a loose knot at the back of her head, and dabbed perfume behind each ear and at her wrists. Wrinkling her forehead at her much-too-somber attire, she eyed her jewelry box.
Why not?
’Twas the season to be festive, was it not?
In the wake of donning her mother’s emerald and pearl earbobs, she examined herself in the rosewood cheval mirror. Still rather drab, especially her pale cheeks. She pinched the too-wan flesh and, before she could think on it overly much, clasped an emerald brooch to her bodice before entwining a length of matching ribbon in her hair.
Sitting on the end of the bed, watching her every move, Patches meowed and appeared to nod.
“You approve?” Skye eyed herself in the mirror once more.
Yes, much better.
She brushed her fingertips over her black skirts and pulled her mouth into a straight line. She’d adored wearing burgundy or midnight blue or green or silver or gold during Twelfth Night, but it was too soon to toss off her mourning weeds.
She twisted her mouth into a rueful smile. Truth to tell, she generally started wearing holiday colors the first week in December. Mama used to say, “I declare, my darlin’ wee lass, nobody loves Christmastide more than ye.”
Feeling slightly mischievous—it had been so long since she had—she seized another length of wider ribbon. Soon, Patches bore a bright red bow. She gave Skye the gimlet eye, not at all pleased with the frippery. Her plaintive yowl only earned her a sympathetic quirk of Skye’s lips.
“You’ll become accustomed to the ribbon, darling. Christmas comes but once a year, and you must look the part, too.” Cradling the cat in one arm, she left the bedchamber.
*
A few minutes later, seated at the cozy table in the breakfast room, a bowl of porridge before h
er, Skye bit her lip, suddenly unsure the Christmas idea would be met with any degree of enthusiasm.
After all, what was an annual tradition for her wasn’t celebrated by anyone here. Her family couldn’t miss what they’d never known and might think her silly for wanting to recreate the event at Eytone Hall.
As they were wont to do every morning, Aunt Louisa, Kendra, and Emeline chatted about their plans for the day. Liam looked on, a tolerant slant to his mouth. He’d escape to his study or the outdoors before long, Prince—his huge, raggedy dog of questionable heritage—at his side.
She hid a grin as Liam, wholly straight-faced, slid a hand beneath the tablecloth and the entire table wobbled. No one so much as blinked as Prince wolfed down his not-so-secret morsel.
Needing a bit of fortification before she introduced her wild idea to the others, Skye took a drink of cooled tea from the saucer. She’d rehearsed what she wanted to say to convince Liam and Aunt Louisa to permit her the festivities. Naturally, she’d cover the cost, and she’d keep the merriments low-key and unostentatious.
“How did ye sleep, Skye? Well, I do hope.” Also attired in mourning black, with the addition of a dainty black lace cap atop her neatly arranged sable curls, Aunt Louisa eyed Skye fondly as she spread berry preserves on her bread. “Ye seem in a little better spirits today.”
Except for her dark hair and gray eyes—Mama possessed gray-blue eyes and almost blonde hair—Aunt Louisa greatly resembled her younger sister. She sounded exactly like her, however. More than once, Skye had momentarily thought she heard her mother speaking before reality unmercifully crashed down upon her.
“I did sleep quite well.” The best night’s rest she’d had in months, truth be told. “Very well, indeed, actually. I had a thought last night…” She had everyone’s attention now. Clearing her throat, she patted her mouth then, gathering her initiative, draped her serviette across her gown once more. “I know ’tisn’t customary in Scotland, but I wondered, perhaps, if we mightn’t celebrate Christmastide this year?”
