by Paula Quinn
He smiled and nodded and Temperance almost didn’t have the strength to leave. She felt his eyes on her like turbulent twin seas. When she reached the house, she turned one last time to look at him and found him still watching her. She waved and blushed some more, or mayhap it was just the chilly air staining her cheeks. It didn’t matter. He made her insides burn. She hoped he’d kiss her again tonight.
“Temperance,” Gram called from inside. “Shut the door before we all freeze to death. Come inside. I wish to speak with ye.”
Temperance closed her eyes and girded her loins. She knew what Gram wanted to speak to her about. Had she spoken to Will yet? She hoped William hadn’t told her he’d seen her and Cailean kissing yesterday. What if he had? How would she explain it?
“Ye’re fond of him?” Gram asked her while they gathered the ingredients they needed for supper.
“Aye,” she admitted. She didn’t want to have this conversation. What if Gram didn’t think Cailean was best for her? It was almost impossible to win an argument with the wise elder. And Temperance didn’t want to lose this one.
“And when he returns to his mountains, will ye be going with him?”
Temperance laughed softly, but she suddenly felt ill. Would she leave Linavar? Gram? She shook her head. “He hasn’t asked, Gram.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t. I would miss ye terribly.”
“Och, Gram, I wouldn’t leave you!” Temperance was quick to tell her. But what if she lost her heart to him completely and he asked her to return to his Highland home with him? Why did her life have to be so complicated?
“He leads a dangerous life, dove. Ye said he told ye he lost his woman to a pistol ball.”
“No more dangerous than Linavar is with the Murdochs ruling over us,” Temperance replied quietly.
“The devil we know is better than the devil we don’t know,” Gram insisted just as quietly.
“But they are all equally dangerous.” She understood that Gram wanted only the best for her and Temperance loved her for it, but she wanted to live. She didn’t care about danger. She cared about passion, about the thousands of butterflies awakening in her belly when she saw Cailean, the fire that consumed her when she kissed him.
“I feel safe with him, Gram.”
“I’m sure his Alison felt safe with him also, dove. Until she died. Hand me that pot, will ye?”
Temperance did as she was asked and then sank into the closest chair and sighed.
“I want what Mother and Father had,” she confessed, planting her chin in her palm. “I will never have that with William, and it has nothing to do with Marion. It has to do with me.”
“Even if it means ye dying in Mr. Grant’s arms next?”
“We will all die, Gram. I would rather perish in the arms of a man who loves me fervently than in the arms of a man who would consider my death his freedom to marry another.”
Finally Gram stopped chopping and nodded. “Come help me, dove,” she said tenderly. “Ye promised him a hearty supper. What will he think if he comes inside to an empty plate and a lass with red, swollen eyes? ’Tis not attractive, in case ye didn’t know.”
Temperance let herself smile and rose from her chair. “Mayhap,” she said with another long, drawn-out sigh, “my father will give us a sign that will let us know to whom I should pledge my life. ’Tis the season of miracles, after all.”
They agreed and spoke of less serious things, like the lovely woolen mantles Temperance promised to help Gram sew.
Before Temperance knew it, two hours had passed, TamLin had stolen part of a quail, and the house was permeated with warmth and the succulent aromas of Gram’s cooking.
She heard the men outside sharing laughter a few minutes before the door opened. She decided she loved the sound of Cailean’s mirth. She wanted to hear it more often.
Patrick stepped inside first, letting in the cold that swept the rushes from the floor into a swirling eddy around her feet.
TamLin, seemingly as happy to see the next man enter as Temperance was, leaped off a chair and hurried to greet him, meowing as she went.
Even her cat fancied him, Temperance thought. Mayhap that was the sign she was looking for. She knew she was wrong when he held out a bundle of sweet-smelling winter heather. Every stem was perfectly intact, without a single tiny blossom lost.
She smiled brighter than she had since she’d lost her father. She couldn’t have asked for a better sign.
“You know how to pick heather,” she said, accepting his offering.
“’Tis a requirement in Camlochlin.” His gaze drank her in like that of a man starving for something that had nothing to do with his belly.
With her heart thudding in her ears and her breath shaky, she rose up on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek, close to his ear.
“I think,” she whispered so that only he could hear, “my father sent you here to me, Cailean Grant.”
She stepped away, a bit embarrassed by her boldness, and didn’t see his smile fade.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning Cailean stepped into the grand dining hall, built by a leader who had done well for his people, and decorated by a lass who loved life and the celebration of it. He smiled at the paintings hanging on the walls, obviously done by a child’s hand. Temperance’s. He liked it here. He could feel the warmth. He could almost envision Seth Menzie sitting at the head of one of the large rectangular tables.
But Seth Menzie hadn’t sent him here, and Cailean needed to tell his daughter the truth.
He closed his eyes and heard the ghostly echoes of laughter filling the large room, cups clacking in hearty toasts to peace and prosperity. Would it ever be the same here again? He knew now that Seth Menzie had been innocent. Temperance’s father wouldn’t have had time to veer off and fire an arrow at men returning to Lyon’s Ridge. If he had, Temperance would have known about it. She would have told him. She didn’t have a reason not to tell him. She’d already voiced her hatred for the Black Riders. She thought he hated them too. No. The wrong man had died.
How could he tell her? How could he do anything more than what he’d done last night? Unable to enjoy the supper she and Gram had prepared, he’d excused himself, claiming exhaustion, and retired to bed without sharing another word with anyone. She was wrong. Her father hadn’t sent him.
It was Christmas Eve, the Night of Candles, when candles were lit and placed in windows to guide the Holy Family to safety. He thought of Camlochlin Castle lighting up the vale, a refuge from the harder world around it. He imagined his kin singing and sipping warm wassail, laughing together by the hearth in the great hall. He missed them while he breathed in the sweet scents of dried pine and mountain laurel mixed with the fragrant aromas of Yule cakes and shortbread baking, along with hens and capercaillies roasting. Mince pies were also being baked and would be offered with cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg to symbolize the gifts bestowed by the three wise men. At Gram’s insistence that the Lord’s birth be celebrated despite the recent death of her son, the villagers would arrive tonight with gifts and smiles.
Cailean should leave before the merriment began. But he didn’t want to go. There hadn’t been merriment in his life for a long time. He hadn’t wanted it.
What had changed?
“Ah, there you are.”
He turned at the sound of Temperance’s voice and smiled at her standing under the doorframe. He spotted the mistletoe ball above her head and was tempted to follow tradition and kiss her. To refuse was bad luck. He didn’t think she’d refuse, though.
He didn’t do it because Deware was doing whatever was necessary to keep Temperance out of the arms of her father’s executioner.
“I was explorin’ the house and its many rooms,” he told her. “This one is m’ favorite.”
“Mine too,” she said softly, and stepped toward him, leaving the mistletoe and vanquishing his foolish desires. “Though I imagine it must be wonderful to live in a castle.”<
br />
It was. But he had forgotten. He’d forgotten much, like what it meant to be happy, to feel fortunate that he had a family he loved and would die for. Almost losing Patrick, and finding Temperance, had helped him remember.
He ran his hand through his hair and pushed it away from his face. Why had it taken inflicting his pain on someone else to make him see how devastating it truly was?
“Camlochlin Castle is verra big and m’ kin are close, but I dinna live in the castle. M’ faither is a builder and he built our house and many others in the vale. He would appreciate yer faither’s workmanship.”
She smiled at him and moved closer.
He felt his breath stall.
“Mayhap someday I shall see your father’s workmanship as you’ve seen mine.”
“Mayhap,” he agreed, watching her drift nearer. Why was he giving her any indication that he might take her home? He scowled and took a step back. She was temptation incarnate and if she found out the truth about him, she’d hate him even more for taking liberties with her.
She stopped, seeing his unease, and didn’t come any closer. “You’re a different kind of man, Cailean Grant,” she told him, making him feel guiltier than ever. “Most men wouldn’t care about William’s request, especially knowing he isn’t in love with me.”
“He protects ye.”
“Aye, I know.” She didn’t sound happy about it. “Tell me, am I fortunate to have such a selfless friend that he would give up his happiness fer me? Am I selfish because I’d rather see him happy with Marion?”
“Nae,” he answered quietly when she took up her steps again. When she reached him, unable to take another step without being in his arms, he didn’t move away but lowered his eyes to avoid looking at her beautiful, curious face.
“Should I bind myself to him for a chance of safety? Is that fair to either of us?”
“It doesna seem so, nae,” he said in a low, thick voice, still not looking up. He could feel her breath on him, the warmth of her body so close. It didn’t irritate him the way others’ being too close to him had. He no longer felt raw and exposed. He could hear her heart beating… or was it his? He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He knew he could love this woman and that above all else he had to guard himself against that.
Still…
He reached out to touch her, forgetting his vows to himself, forgetting Deware and everyone else. She’d nursed him back from death and continued to do so every day that he spent with her. He moved his fingers over her cheek and jaw, aching to trace the line of her mouth, to press his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to his touch.
“He does what’s best fer ye, lass.”
She opened her eyes again to look up at him. “Does he?” She kept her voice soft, like a sorceress casting a spell on him, tempting him though he was quite sure she was as pure as the freshly fallen snow.
“What if William isn’t what’s best for me?”
He wasn’t. But was Cailean? He couldn’t be. Not with all his secrets.
Looking into her eyes calmed his heart and made it beat frantically at the same time. Her full, coral lips tempted him to release every care, every concern, all his fears and misgivings, and just kiss her.
“Temperance, there is something.…” He had to tell her the truth before he did anything else. Patrick had been shot. Duncan Murdoch had blamed someone in Linavar and Cailean had demanded blood. She would never forgive him. Why kiss her again and start something that would end badly? She could never love him.
“Aye?” she asked softly. “What is it, Cailean?”
He looked away. Caring for her would only lead to more heartache for him.
“Nothin’. I… I think Deware—”
“Och, please, Cailean,” she whispered, and pressed her index finger to his lips to silence him. “Don’t tell me William is best for me. I know he’s a wonderful man. I know it better than most. But it doesn’t mean he’s better for me than…” She paused and looked up into his eyes.
Than he? Cailean wanted to ask her. Instead he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her finger. Not he. “No’ me, lass.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her. “No’ me. I dinna want love. ’Tis temporary and when ’tis gone, it takes some of ye with it—and I have none left to give.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Aye, I’m afraid. I’ve seen what it does. I’ve felt the destruction. Hell, so have ye. Ye lost yer faither, Temperance.”
“I did,” she agreed, and let her hand fall to her side. “But I would never trade a single day I had with him for less pain at his passing.”
“I would,” he told her, stepping back. “I would go back and do things differently.” For her. He wouldn’t let Duncan Murdoch ride down the mountain to kill her father. He’d do everything to save Seth Menzie, and then he’d consider risking all to give this lass his heart.
But he couldn’t go back.
“Coward,” she muttered as he stepped around her and headed for the exit.
“Hell,” said his cousin, entering and hearing her. “No one has ever called him that and lived.” He smiled at Temperance and then reached out and snatched Cailean’s arm just before he left the hall.
“Where are ye off to?”
“The kitchen.”
“The kitchen, eh?” Patrick grinned at him. Cailean didn’t smile back. Patrick let him go and turned to lift his auburn brow at her. “He wasn’t always a broodin’, stubborn pain in m’ arse.”
Temperance turned to Patrick and smiled. “Tell me what he used to be like, then.”
“Ye look like ye just lost yer dearest friend.” Gram looked up at Cailean when he entered the kitchen with TamLin hot on his heels. “Ah, Cailean, come, help me cook.”
She pulled a genuine smile from him. He missed being in a kitchen. As a younger man, when he wasn’t honing his fighting skills, he’d been learning how to cook in his aunt Isobel’s kitchen. It soothed him. After Sage died he’d stopped. He’d just about stopped everything. He felt it was time to return.
“I have dozens of different vegetables and almost every herb ye’re likely to need.”
Cailean nodded and rolled up his sleeves, happy to teach her and eager to begin. “We’ll start with basil salmon pâté, then to cremonese. ’Tis a spinach tart.” He began moving around the kitchen, looking for his ingredients, his cautious heart forgotten. “We’ll need spinach, mint, eggs.” He set what he had gathered down on the chopping block, then headed out again, sometimes following her direction. “Cheese, butter, currants, cinnamon, and nutmeg. After that we’ll make bouillabaisse. ’Tis a fish-and-tomato stew with fresh herbs. D’ye have almonds? Nae? I will travel to the market in Kenmore tomorrow and get some so we can make macaroons, and vanilla beans too, for the crème brûlée.”
He smiled at her again when he caught her staring at him, breathless as he was.
“Ye seem happier,” Gram pointed out.
He shrugged while he brought more ingredients to the table. “Mayhap I am.”
She eyed him with her one eye, her expression on him going soft. “Is it the kitchen… or my granddaughter?”
“Both, I think,” he confessed, trying to keep his thoughts on Temperance smiling, and not on her crying, covered in blood.
“Ye remind me of my Seth. He too enjoyed helping me cook and bake, only he never pronounced words so eloquently.”
With his smile fading, he lowered his gaze and began to prepare his dishes. “I believe the French language is one of the most beautiful.”
“Aye,” she agreed, continuing to size him up with her shrewd eye. “Ye don’t know how to treat a compliment,” she said, bringing him back to the present. “I like that about ye. ’Tis refreshing. Any man who looks like ye should be used to compliments.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and, proving he could be as charming as Patrick, granted her his most guileless grin. “Unless the other men where I’m from are all more
handsome than I.”
She laughed and he joined her. “Ye’re more clever than yer big, innocent eyes and beguiling smile imply.” She grew serious again all too soon. “How are ye with fighting? How would ye ever keep my jewel safe?”
He stopped mixing and straightened his shoulders. “I was trained every single day by outlaw warriors. I can fight better than most.” He noted the slight tilt of her mouth. “As far as keepin’ her safe, there are two options. Stay here and kill yer enemies. Or take her home with me to the mountains.”
Cailean noted her smile fading and understood that taking Gram’s granddaughter away would destroy her.
“Can she farm in the mountains?” the old woman asked.
Cailean thought about it, and then shook his head. Most burghs and villages in the Highlands raised cattle, not vegetables. “No’ as well as she farms here.”
“The soil’s in her blood, inherited from her father. She won’t be happy with rocks.”
Cailean set his eyes to a bowl of yeast rather than on Gram. Who’d said anything about his actually deciding to take her home? Gram had brought it up, not he.
“Ye dinna have to worry aboot me takin’ her. I dinna want a woman in m’ life.”
“I don’t blame ye,” she said, swatting him with her powdered hand. “We’re a troublesome bunch.”
He smiled again, but not to agree with her. He simply liked how she made him feel so at home.
“Was Temperance a troublesome child?” He shouldn’t let himself feel curious about her life. But he was.
“Och, she had her willful days. Still does.”
He nodded with agreement this time.
“Her mother died while giving her to us,” Gram told him while she kneaded a mound of dough. She smiled softly into the distant past. “I took one look at her and knew the only thing I needed in my life was to see my grandbabe happy. Many of the villagers insisted I bring in a wet nurse. They feared my little Temperance would not thrive. That she’d waste away and die without her mother’s milk. Fools. I fed her easily enough with goat’s milk, some hazel oil to help with stomach ailments, and a pouch with a nozzle.”
