Once Upon A Highland Christmas

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  His beard rings also glinted, and the silver Thor’s hammer at his throat.

  Grim was pagan.

  And just now he looked earthy and bold enough to eat her alive.

  Her heart hammering wildly, Breena flattened herself against the cold stone of the wall. Grim started forward, his strides slow and sure, smooth as a predator’s.

  “Dinnae think I cannae see you, lassie.” His voice was rich and smooth, deeply burred and lowered intimately enough to send heat to her face.

  She refused to think about what it did to other places.

  Nor was there time for any such foolish contemplation, for he was almost upon her.

  She could hear his steady, measured footsteps approaching.

  Much more disturbingly, she caught a hint of his manly scent of musk and leather, crisp, cold air, and just a trace of peat smoke, the whole made more intoxicating by a distinct dash of sandalwood and some exceptionally pleasing spice she couldn’t identify.

  No man smelled as good.

  Nor had any other ever made her pulse race so crazily. She was hot all over now, her entire body aflame. And that although inside, she felt so chilled by his betrayal. She was in a terrible state, confused, infuriated, disillusioned, and wildly excited, at once.

  She didn’t like it.

  She was also sure she could feel his stare through the woven thickness of the tapestry, as if his intensity pierced the cloth, pinning her in place, searing her straight to the roots of her soul.

  Then he was right in front of her.

  “I can see your slippers.” His words only proved what she knew. “If you’re after spying on a man, Breena, be certain all of you is hidden. Wall hangings that end above the floor give a fine view of feet and ankles. Next time—”

  “There won’t be one, for I’ve seen enough.” Breena nipped out from behind the tapestry to glare at him. For good measure, she set her hands on her hips and tossed her head. “Though I’m surprised you know my name.”

  “I know much about you.” He didn’t seem fazed by her anger. He also reached to lift a curl of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “I also ken that maids with tresses like flame have tempers and often act before they think.”

  “I have reason to be wroth.” Breena snatched the beribboned ivy from beneath his belt and thrust it at him, accusingly. “You’re removing my decorations and”—she flashed a look across the hall at the Yule Log—“you were about to defile the Old Christmas Wife.”

  “Was I, now?” He cocked a brow.

  “You were.” Breena looped the strand of ivy around her own belt. “You can’t deny it. I saw you.”

  “You observed me doing something, aye.” He angled his head, his beard rings clacking with the movement. “Do you aye believe what you see? Have you no’ learned that all isn’t as it seems in this world?”

  “I know someone is ridding the hall of every bit of greenery I set about.” She narrowed her eyes, hoping to make him feel guilty. “I’m not the only one to notice. The poor kitchen laddies fear a bogle is responsible. Heaven knows Duncreag has seen enough tragedy in recent years for a whole army of ghosts to float about its walls.”

  “No spirit is stealing your Yuletide frippery, Lady Breena.” He regarded her in a way that made her want to squirm, and not because of the nature of their conversation. “Think you I am no’ troubled by the actions of a sad-hearted old man?”

  Brenna blinked, his admission surprising her. “You believe Archie is doing it?”

  “Who else?”

  “You’re the one who had my ivy dangling from your belt.”

  “That proves the ivy was in my possession, no more.” A slow smile started at the corner of his mouth and spread until it was highly distracting. “I found the ivy in the passageway.” He glanced over his shoulder at the hall’s darkened entry arch. “I meant to return it to the high table.”

  “When, after you damaged the Old Christmas Wife?” Breena’s chin came up. She wanted to believe him, but she’d caught him in the act. “I saw the dirk in your hand, the look on your face. You were furious.”

  “So I was.” He set his hands on her hips, his grip firm as if he worried she’d bolt if he didn’t keep her before him. “But no’ because some crazed fury had me wanting to ruin the crone I’d spent hours working on, aiming to make her as lifelike as I could.”

  “She was perfect.”

  “So I thought.”

  Breena was keenly aware of his big strong hands at her waist, his splayed fingers and how their warmth reached her despite the cloth of her gown. His touch felt good, even thrilling. So much so that delicious shivers rippled through her. She had to struggle against sighing with pleasure. But he wasn’t holding her because he desired her. She knew why he was in the hall and why he didn’t want her watching him. There was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

  He had been about to defile the Cailleach Nollaigh.

  She knew what she’d seen.

  So she kept her chin raised, not hiding her suspicion. “If you were so pleased with the carving, why were you about to ruin her?”

  “You think that was my intent?” Disappointment flickered across his face.

  Breena hesitated.

  He leaned in, so close that his lips brushed her ear. “I told you no’ all is as it seems. Mayhap that is different in your Ireland. But I have been there, lass, and dinnae believe that is so.”

  “I thought we were speaking of the Yule Log.” Breena pulled back, not wanting to talk of her home. Inishowen, Donegal, all of Ireland was gone to her. She could never return, for nothing of her village remained. Her family was lost, her parents and even her much-loved aunt and uncle, all dead. She’d only been spared because Ralla and his men wanted to sell her as a slave. They’d planned to do so after they’d settled into Duncreag. Now they were gone, too, praise the gods. And she was here. The way Grim’s breath teased her skin and how his soft, husky voice flowed through her made her uncomfortable.

  Any moment he’d notice the blush heating her cheeks, guess how attracted she was to him. And that was to be avoided at all costs.

  She had her pride.

  She didn’t wish to go moony-eyed over a man who scarce knew she existed.

  Wasn’t his face all stony again? The gray gaze he held so steady on her as unreadable as the steel links of his gleaming mail shirt?

  “My home is no more and it pains me to speak of it. I miss Ireland, see you?” She spoke quickly, not caring if he heard the regret in her voice. “I would know why you were—”

  “At the Cailleach Nollaigh, aye? And”—his eyes warmed a bit then, a faint smile curving his lips—“with a blade in my hand.”

  “I did wonder.”

  “Come, and I’ll show you.” He led her across the hall with a purposeful stride that warned her that whatever they’d find would prove her wrong. He stopped beside the hearth, frowned down at the Yule Log. “Perhaps you can guess what I was about to do?”

  “Mercy!” Breena’s eyes rounded as she stared at the Old Christmas Wife.

  Only the heavy oaken log no longer resembled a crone.

  The stump now looked like a big-bearded, bulbous-nosed man.

  Breena clapped a hand to her breast, tearing her gaze from the monstrosity that was Duncreag’s Yule Log. She blinked in confusion at Grim.

  “Whatever is that?” She looked at it again, horrified.

  Worse, she now detected a slight familiarity about the reworked carving.

  “Dear heavens!” She gripped Grim’s arm, her gaze still on the ruined Yule Log. “That’s the face of Greer MacGregor, one of Archie’s worst enemies.”

  “Indeed.” Grim nudged the log with his booted toe. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the laird of late, same as you, it would seem. Archie crept in here earlier and tried to drag the stump out of the hall. When he couldn’t, he knelt and drew his dirk, undoing the Yule Log’s magic by turning the crone’s likeness into a man.”

  “One he can’t abide.
” Breena was shocked.

  Grim shrugged. “At least he hasn’t entirely lost his sense of humor, or his skill at woodcarving. It’s a relief to see his hand is steadier than it appears when he sits at the high table of an e’en, hardly able to cut his meat or lift an ale cup to his lips.”

  “You think he’s faking his frailty?” The thought had never occurred to Breena.

  “It’s possible.” Grim hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. “Sorrow and loneliness can do strange things to a man. Could be he’s looking for sympathy and too proud to ask, or show appreciation when it’s given to him.”

  Breena felt her face warm, aware that she was guilty of coddling the old chieftain. She served at Duncreag as a housekeeper of sorts, an unspoken seneschal. But Archie treated her more like a daughter.

  She did care for him, and greatly.

  “Is that why you didn’t confront him?” She looked at Grim, sure of it. “To keep from embarrassing him if he knew you’d seen what he’d done?”

  “Aye, well…” Grim shrugged again, looking uncomfortable himself.

  But then one corner of his mouth lifted in a way that did funny things to Breena’s belly.

  She forgot all about the Yule Log and even the strand of beribboned ivy at her belt.

  She only saw the big rugged warrior standing so near to her that she could hardly breathe for how fast her heart was racing. Limned by the red glow of the hearth’s dying embers, Grim looked fiercer than ever. So magnificent that her knees weakened. Indeed, his raw, powerful masculinity seared her, heating her entire body as if the hearth fire still blazed and she’d leapt right into the flames.

  He was that awe inspiring.

  No bonnie lad, but a man.

  He was looking at her intently, as if he knew her thoughts, every wicked, impossible notion whirling through her mind.

  Breena stepped back, dusted her skirts. “You were going to fix the carving, weren’t you?” It was all she could think to say. “You meant to turn it back into an old woman before anyone could guess what Archie had done.”

  “That was one of my reasons, aye.” He raised a hand then, silencing her, as he glanced toward the hall’s shadowed door arch.

  Breena followed his gaze, alarm sweeping her when she heard what had drawn his attention: slow, shuffling footsteps and the telltale tap-tapping of a crummock, a tall, crook-headed Highland walking stick.

  Archie was coming.

  “Oh, no!” She glanced about, but it was too late to escape. “He’ll see us and know we’ve been watching him.”

  “See us, he will, aye.” Grim didn’t sound concerned. “But he’ll no’ think we’re in here because of him.”

  “Of course, he will.” Breena felt awful.

  The last thing she wanted was to shame the old man.

  “Dinnae look so stricken, lass.” Grim stepped closer and cupped her face in his hands. He leaned down, spoke against her ear. “He’ll no’ suspect a thing.”

  Breena wasn’t so sure. “Why not?”

  “Because”—Grim straightened, slid a telling glance upward at the ball of mistletoe above their heads—“I’m about to kiss you.”

  Chapter Two

  Grim knew his folly the moment he lowered his mouth toward Breena’s.

  Rather than stiffening as he’d expected her to do, she leaned into him, almost melting against his chest. They stood beneath the mistletoe, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to thigh. She even slid her arms up and around his neck, twining her fingers in his hair. A tiny tremor rippled through her then as if she’d been waiting for this moment, hoping for his kiss.

  A shame he suspected it was someone else she truly wanted.

  Several of the younger garrison lads had tried to court her, wooing her with pretty words, gifts of woven cloth, and once—or so he’d heard—an armful of loveliest heather. Talk among the men was that she pretended not to hear the compliments, passed on the cloth to young mothers who needed it more, and placed the heather on graves of Duncreag’s fallen.

  A few more persistent lads claimed she’d declined their attentions by saying her heart belonged to another.

  And that she’d gazed wistfully into the distance when telling them so.

  The lads said she looked toward Ireland.

  Grim was sure she did. He was also certain the young man who held her affection ached for her as well.

  It was a notion that pierced him to the core.

  No saint, he swore beneath his breath, his blood heating all the same. Passion raged, fierce and demanding as he held her fast, claiming her lips with a bold roughness he just couldn’t help.

  She was in his arms now.

  And she tasted sweeter than the nectar of the gods.

  When she lifted up on her toes and parted her lips to flick the tip of her tongue against his own, his agony was complete. Never before had a woman returned his kiss with such ardor. He believed most lasses feared him, big and rough-hewn as he was, without courtly manners. Breena was an angel beyond compare, a prize so rare he was stunned to have her in his arms, so soft and pliant.

  He didn’t want to desire her.

  Someday her Irish lover—if he’d survived the raid on her village—would ride up to Duncreag’s gates to claim her, taking her back across the sea. Grim certainly would if she were his. And he doubted Donegal men were any less possessive. He shouldn’t lay a finger on her.

  Yet she set him aflame.

  Knowing he was leaping into an abyss he could never escape, he nipped the lush curve of her lower lip and then deepened the kiss, letting his tongue glide into the soft velvet-warmth of her mouth. She kissed him back, her own tongue tangling with his, tantalizing and intimate, making him forget every reason he shouldn’t be touching her.

  He pulled her closer, not caring. He shut his mind to the hurtful truth. That every time he thought she’d glanced his way, she quickly looked elsewhere. Indeed, she didn’t pay heed to any of the men at Duncreag. Not even bonnie younger lads so much more appealing than him.

  Grim bit back a growl, not wanting to think of her yearning for an Inishowen lad in Donegal. Perhaps imagining such a lad now held her. Yet she was soft and warm in his arms. Her lips so yielding, her glossy tresses a spill of cool silk across his cheek, the dance of her tongue bewitching him. She even made a little mewing sound, responding eagerly as she returned the kiss.

  What man could resist such temptation?

  He surely couldn’t.

  So he swept an arm around her, splaying his hand across her lower back until she was crushed to him. He plundered her lips, drinking deeply of her as if he were dying of thirst and only she could quench his parched need. The fever was a raging in his veins, making him burn.

  Shocking him, too, for no other woman had ever affected him so powerfully.

  Not with a mere kiss.

  He could so easily devour her whole. By Thor, he wanted nothing more.

  But something was jabbing into his side. And in the moment he realized it was the end of Archie’s crummock, the aged laird let out a hoot jarring enough to split the ears of the loudest banshee.

  Breena started, her eyes flying wide.

  Grim tore his lips from hers and lifted his head. His heart thundered and his breath was ragged. “By all the glories of Valhalla,” he snarled, releasing Breena from his arms, most regretfully.

  “Sir!” She stared at the old man, her eyes even rounder at the sight he presented in his flowing bed-robe and with his hair sleep-mussed and standing up in tufts. “It’s late for you to be about.”

  “Pah! A good chieftain ne’er sleeps, lassie.” Archie turned to Grim and gave him another poke with his walking stick. It was a hard jab that belied his yammers about being achy and frail. Leaning forward, he waggled his brows. “What did I just see here, eh? Kissing the maid, were you?”

  “So I was, aye.” Grim discreetly stepped before the Cailleach Nollaigh, hoping to avoid a confrontation about the Old Christmas Wife’s transformation into
Greer MacGregor. “There is a ball of mistletoe hanging o’er our heads.”

  “Is there now?” Archie tut-tutted but didn’t look up.

  “Indeed, and a very fine ball it is.” Grim glanced at the heavy black ceiling rafter and the sacred plant dangling at the end of a bright red ribbon.

  Archie harrumphed. “Kissing unsuspecting lassies…” He let the words trail off, shaking his head disapprovingly.

  “I didn’t mind, sir.” The breathlessness of Breena’s tone confirmed her admission.

  “No good comes of such foolery.” Archie remained grumpy.

  “It was my festive duty to kiss her as we passed beneath the mistletoe.” Grim held out his hand to display a white mistletoe berry. “I claimed a berry before my lips touched hers, as the old gods demand.”

  “Humph! I dinnae care about the ancient ones and their auld, moldy customs.” Archie glowered at the berry before turning a fierce scowl on Grim. “Belike there’s folk beneath my roof who cannae remember a man’s simplest wishes. That fashes me more than tradition.

  “There’ll be no Yuletide at Duncreag. No roaring fires, no feasting. To be sure, no merrymaking.” He looked from Grim to Breena and then back to Grim, shaking a finger at them both. “No’ this year or e’er again.

  “Men should spend their nights patrolling the battlements and keeping their eyes on the shadows, no’ dancing jigs and reaching for mead horns.” His bushy brows drew together. “Such frivol can cost a man, dinnae forget.”

  “Everyone respects your wishes.” Breena went over to him, her soft voice soothing. “Indeed, it would seem the gods agree with you.” She flashed a warning look at Grim as the night wind howled past the windows. A strong gust, it rattled shutters and even lifted the edges of the leather curtains that kept the worst chill from the hall’s raised dais where Archie’s high table stood empty.

  “See?” Breena gave the old man a fond smile. “Haven’t they sent a cold north wind to blow into the hall and carry away every bit of greenery?

  “I shouldn’t have decorated.” She patted his arm. “We’ll have the mistletoe removed as well, I promise.”