Jamie did not answer right away.
“And I think that I should oversee that southern estate for ye, my laird.” Iain bowed his head and waited for his nephew’s reaction.
What Iain was offering was a practical solution for the uncomfortable situation that their marriage would cause. She would not be accepted in the laird’s household, but this would give his uncle a way to serve without causing constant problems. Anice had been the one to suggest it, and Rob agreed it was a pragmatic solution.
“I do need someone I can trust to protect our southern borders, Uncle,” The MacKillop finally said. Robena let out the breath she’d been holding and smiled to herself.
“Come up to the keep. Anice has supper waiting on ye,” Rob offered, now that the storm had passed.
“Uncle? Do ye join us?” Jamie asked. Though he faced his uncle now, he stared over Iain’s shoulder at her there in the doorway. This was the first of countless choices Iain would face because of her. She listened for his answer, not taking her gaze from The MacKillop’s.
“I will be there shortly, Jamie. Rob, dinna wait on me to eat.”
His nephew could have ordered his presence. But Jamie seemed to understand that there would be other times when he would need to do that, and he nodded now, looking back at his uncle. As soon as Jamie followed Rob away, Robena moved from behind the door, back nearer to the hearth.
“It worked,” he said as he entered and walked to her side.
“Aye, ’tis a good plan, as long as ye are happy?” He would be giving up so much to have her at his side.
“Are ye with me, wife?” he asked in the deep voice that sent chills from her head to her toes.
“I am, Iain.” Unfortunately, there was no time to do anything about the desire that he called forth in her. “I will be waiting for ye, laddie,” she promised.
With a kiss, quick and hot and possessive, he strode to the door and lifted the latch. He waited until she met his gaze and smiled.
“And I will take off my boots for ye, lass.”
Robena laughed as he pulled the door closed behind himself. She looked forward to the challenge he’d just offered her.
Even more than the fleeting moments of pleasure, she looked forward to a life with him—a future that she would never have dreamt was possible until Iain MacKillop made her believe it could happen.
Also by Terri Brisbin
MacKendimen Clan series
A Love Through Time (Book 1)
Once Forbidden (Book 2)
“A Highlander’s Hope” (Book 2A; novella in Christmas in Kilts)
A Matter of Time (Book 3)
A Highland Feuding series
Stolen by the Highlander (Book 1)
The Highlander’s Runaway Bride (Book 2)
Kidnapped by the Highland Rogue (Book 3)
Claiming His Highland Bride (Book 4)
Standalone Short Works
“A Traitor’s Heart” (short story in Brandywine Brides—A Blackwood Legacy Anthology
“Upon a Misty Skye” (novella in Once Upon a Haunted Castle)
“Across a Windswept Isle” (novella in The Forbidden Highlands)
“Kidnapping the Laird” (historical short story)
For a complete list of Terri’s books, please visit www.terribrisbin.com
About the Author
Author photograph © Bonnie J. Rovere
In real life, award-winning and USA Today bestselling author Terri Brisbin is a wife, a mom, a grandmom, and a dental hygienist. Terri’s 45+ historical and paranormal romance novels, novellas, and short stories have sold in more than 25 countries and 20 languages around the world. Visit www.terribrisbin.com for more info about Terri, her stories, and her upcoming events. Connect with her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/terribrisbin or ‘like’ www.facebook.com/terribrisbinauthor.
You can sign up for email updates here.
A HIGHLAND CHRISTMAS WAGER
Lecia Cornwall
Prologue
December 21, 1711
“There’ll be snow before another hour has past,” Maighread MacLennan said, her tone light and matter-of-fact, her aged blue eyes scanning the faded rusty-green hills on the horizon.
Meggie looked at the blue sky and the sun gleaming on the frost that spiked the heather and dry grasses. It was a perfect day to travel, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She looked fondly at her grandmother and rode closer, to tuck the old woman’s arisaid more securely about her shoulders to keep out the sharp wind. “Och, we’ll be safe indoors before the first snowflake arrives, Seanmhair.”
But Ewan MacLennan, the clansman who carried Maighread behind him on his garron, glanced at the old woman over his shoulder with a smile. “Your seanmhair has a canny way of telling when the weather is going to change, and she’s always right. Ye’ll note the wind has picked up.”
Meggie was too excited about reaching home to let anything discourage her. In just two days she’d be at Glen Iolair, with her kin. She threw her hood back and let the wind ruffle her hair as she grinned at her grandmother’s faithful servant. “Nonsense. We never would have set out today if it looked like bad weather.”
Maighread tilted her head and regarded her granddaughter. “The weather changes fast in the Highlands. Everything does, except the land itself. I couldn’t begin to count the times I’ve looked at these peaks, seen them covered with spring flowers, summer green, and heather and then—Well, ye’ll soon see the snow for yourself, òrdugh-ogha, dearest granddaughter—and it will start within the hour, as I’ve said.”
“Then we’ll simply have to cover as many miles as we can before it comes,” Meggie replied. “We’ll be safe at Raine Castle in a few hours. Sir Hector is expecting us—there’ll be mulled wine, roast venison, and plenty of good company.”
“I hope he won’t worry when we don’t arrive,” Maighread said.
Meggie resisted a sigh. “Of course we’ll get there, Seanmhair, and tomorrow we’ll go on to Glen Iolair, just as we planned.” Her smile blossomed at the thought of her home. She’d been at her grandmother’s home at Seannbrae for nearly three months, helping while her grandmother’s broken leg healed, but Seanmhair was almost better, and it was Yuletide, and Meggie could hardly wait to be home with her father and her sisters. Even if they were delayed an extra night by unexpected weather, she’d still be there to help her sisters gather greens and decorate the hall with fir and mistletoe. They’d go out to watch the men cut down the Yule log and ride it home again. The log would be carved with the face of the Cailleach Nollaigh, the winter hag, and on Christmas Eve, they’d roll it into the fire in the hall to vanquish winter’s rule and bring the clan good fortune for the coming year. There’d be dancing and feasting, games and gifts, and the pleasure of being with the ones she loved most—and that included her beloved seanmhair.
She glanced at the blue sky again—had it faded a wee bit since she last looked? Surely not—but a cold gust of wind tugged at a lock of her blond hair and chilled her cheeks. She snatched the curl back and tucked it behind her ear. She drew her arisaid closer and rode forward to tease the clansmen in their escort about the lasses they hoped to steal kisses from under the mistletoe.
But an hour later, Meggie pushed back the hood of her plaid and looked up at the sour yellow sky. Heavy pewter clouds were now charging over the mountains, and the playful wind had turned sharp and cruel.
“I told ye,” her grandmother said blithely. “We’ll have a foot or more on the ground before dark.”
Ewan MacLennan nodded soberly in agreement.
Meggie looked around. They were miles from anywhere, and while she and her clansmen might survive a stormy night outdoors, Seanmhair was over eighty and as frail as a snowflake herself. Meggie looked at Ewan. “We’d best unpack the furs.” Her chest tightened with worry as she looked at her grandmother. “Don’t worry, Seanmhair. We’ll be fine. Perhaps it won’t be as bad as you think.”
“Or it will be worse,” Maighread said.
“Or the snow may simply bring something unexpected, and whether that’s good or bad is yet to be seen. Nay, I’m not worried at all.”
The three strong MacLeods and the six MacLennans who rode with them closed in around the women, waiting for orders. ”We’ll head north, take shelter at Gleanngalla Castle,” Ewan said, pointing the way. “It’s but an hour away.”
Meggie’s throat closed. “Gleanngalla? Nay—surely there’s somewhere else, someplace—” Anywhere but Gleanngalla.
Ewan shook his head. “Raine is still ten miles away.” He let his eyes slide pointedly to Seanmhair. “It’s a long way in a storm.”
Meggie pursed her lips and nodded reluctantly. Her grandmother’s safety came first, and her own pride a distant second. Still, despite the cold, she felt her cheeks burn. She scanned the track that led to Gleanngalla. Perhaps Magnus MacVane and his pretty wife wouldn’t be at home, or perhaps Meggie herself would fall into a deep loch or roll down the side of a mountain before they reached his keep.
She wrapped warm furs around Seanmhair’s frail body with shaking hands, and Ewan grinned at her. “Don’t fret, lass. She knows to hold tight to me, and I’m big enough to block the wind. She’ll be right as rain.”
“Or snow,” Maighread MacLennan said. She smiled at Meggie. “I’ve always thought it nicer to have snow for the Yule.”
“Aye, but it could have waited a few days more to arrive,” Meggie said, and she glanced at the sky again. The first thick flakes of snow rushed at them like an invading army, carried by the wind, pasting themselves to the manes and eyelashes of the garrons, snatching maliciously at tightly wrapped plaids.
As the clansmen turned toward Gleanngalla, Meggie stood still for a moment. She let the icy flakes sting her cheeks and watched the clansmen go. She couldn’t bring herself to kick the garron, urge it on toward Gleanngalla. She’d rather go anywhere else, a freezing cave, a drafty shieling, or even a hole in the snow . . . But her clansmen glanced over their shoulders and stopped to wait for her to catch up, and Seanmhair needed shelter, so Meggie MacLeod had no choice but to ride on.
Chapter One
Gleanngalla Castle
Magnus MacVane, laird of Gleanngalla, sat by the blazing fire with his two guests. One had been there a fortnight—an old friend, if not a dear one. The other had arrived that very afternoon, riding in out of a gathering snowstorm. They’d both stay for Christmas, of course, having no wives or bairns of their own to go home to, and that was just as well, Magnus thought, since his own wife was eight months dead, and he was alone himself.
And bored. Not that he missed Euna. Marrying her had brought him a fortune, but he hadn’t loved her, and it was a relief to Magnus when a sudden fever claimed her. Others missed her, he supposed, including his sister Catriona—and there was yet another irritating female.
Magnus looked at his guests, wondered what amusement they could find. Charlie MacKay, laird of Dunlinton, was his dead wife’s brother. Charlie was a quick with a joke or a drink, but that wasn’t why Magnus had invited him—summoned him, actually—to Gleanngalla. Charlie owed Magnus money and favors, and he meant to collect one or possibly both before Charlie left again. He’d force MacKay to wed Catriona, make him take her off his hands and out of his hair. But at the moment, Charlie was eying a pretty maidservant, clearly imagining a far more pleasant bedmate than sharp-tongued Catriona.
Magnus’s second guest sat soberly nursing the same cup of ale he’d been sipping for the past hour.
So far, Laird Hugh MacAulay had kept his reasons for coming to Gleanngalla to himself, and he kept his eyes off the maidservants—and the silver, for that matter. Magnus knew MacAulay had recently inherited the lairdship of Abercorry, and Magnus didn’t envy him that. Abercorry was a poor holding, in disarray after having three lairds in as many years. There were rumors of debts and bad blood between the MacAulays and their neighbors. Hugh had buried his uncle about the same time Magnus was burying his wife, just last spring. And if MacAulay was here instead of there, it must mean he wanted something from Magnus, but as yet he hadn’t said what. Perhaps he just wanted to escape from Abercorry.
Magnus glanced up at the windows as another blast of wind rattled the expensive, wee, diamond-shaped panes. “The snow is getting thicker by the minute,” he remarked, leaning across the table to refill MacAulay’s cup in hopes of loosening his tongue. “It’s good to be inside, eh, MacAulay? Where it’s warm?”
“’Twould be warmer with a few lasses to cuddle,” Charlie quipped before MacAulay could reply, speaking loudly enough for the pretty maidservant to hear. The lass blushed and fled.
“There’s Catriona,” Magnus said, hoping the servant had gone to fetch another pitcher of ale.
Charlie shuddered. “I meant friendly lasses, not your shrew of a sister. She’d freeze the balls off a—”
Magnus held up his hand and sent him a pointed glare. “My sister needs a husband.”
Charlie swallowed hard and reached for the pitcher himself, frowning when he discovered it was empty. He looked up hopefully as the door opened, but it was just a clansman. He was so covered with snow Magnus wasn’t sure which man it was. Charlie gaped at him. “God’s balls, lad, you’re more snow than human. Cold out, is it?”
The man nodded, but turned to speak to Magnus. “There’s a party at the gate asking for shelter from the storm, Laird. Will ye welcome them?”
“Did they bring any women with them?” Charlie asked.
“It’s hard to say under all the fur and snow, but I believe there are two,” the clansman said. “Shall I ask someone to summon mistress Catriona to see them in the solar?”
Charlie jumped to his feet. “You do and I’ll snap your frozen fingers off. Bring ‘em here and let’s have a look at them. Magnus can bid them welcome and give them a dram or two before exposing them to the shock of Catriona.”
Magnus nodded, and the clansman retreated, leaving a puddle of melting snow on the stone floor. MacAulay was already on his feet, straightening his plaid, smoothing his wind-chased hair politely.
“Steady, MacAulay—ye don’t even know if they’re pretty yet,” Charlie quipped. “It could be Old Cailleach, the winter hag, for all we know.”
The door opened and a troop of snow-covered men entered the room, big and broad, and made broader still by the furs and plaids they wore and the thick crust of snow covering those. There was no way to identify their plaids. One of the men carried a woman in his arms. MacAulay hurried forward with a chair, and the man lowered his burden into it while another man moved toward Magnus.
“I’m Keith MacLeod of the MacLeods of Glen Iolair. I’d like to ask for shelter for my mistress and her seanmhair, the lady of Seannbrae.”
“And our escort,” the woman in the chair said, folding back the plaid that covered hair that was nearly as white as the snow itself. Her blue eyes scanned the room, alighting on each of the three lairds, one after the other, like restless birds.
“Iolair?” Magnus said. His gaze fell on the second woman, who was still wrapped in her plaid. All Magnus could see was her eyes.It was enough to recognize her, to know her. As he once had, in the biblical sense . . .
A grin split Magnus’s face. “Meggie MacLeod. After so many years—is it ye, Meggie?”
She pinned him with a sharp violet-blue gaze. She pushed back her arisaid with long slender fingers, and Magnus’s breath caught in his throat. Maggie MacLeod had grown from a pretty girl to a breathtakingly beautiful woman. She raked him briefly—too briefly—with a glance as icy as the weather, then looked away.
“Good evening, Magnus. May I present my grandmother, Maighread MacLennan of Seannbrae?” Her voice had a smoky quality, breathless and sweet, like warmed whisky on a cold night. It shot straight to his groin, made him remember a summer night eight years in the past, and a hayloft . . . did she remember too?
She was looking at anything but him—at Charlie McKay, at MacAulay, at the walls. When she looked back at him at last, he sent her a kno
wing grin and watched her blush, even as her chin rose. Haughty wee MacLeod—he’d known her when she wasn’t so haughty, when she was spread beneath him like a banquet and he was—
“Perhaps your lady wife might send a maid to see to my grandmother?”
“She’s dead.”
Surprise flashed in her eyes for a moment. She looked around the room again, no doubt noting the absence of women in his hall now. Then her gaze lowered, a sweep of golden lashes over rosy cheeks. Her lush lips puckered slightly, and he suppressed the urge to groan aloud for sheer lust.
“My sister is here. Upstairs. Somewhere.” He stepped forward. He wanted to touch Meggie MacLeod, unwrap her, taste her . . . He’d once charmed this lass at a clan gathering, seduced her, and forgotten her—until now. Meggie, delectable Meggie was here, in his hall, and that offered intriguing possibilities. As he recalled, he’d been on his way to his own wedding at the time of their dalliance, though Meggie hadn’t known that wee detail. She’d been a perfect conquest, a green lass ready for seduction, ripe for flattery, male attention, and first love. He’d given her all that. He’d wanted the challenge of coaxing one of the Fearsome MacLeod’s virginal daughters to give herself to him. Some men liked the challenge of stalking dangerous game, but Magnus preferred women. He could sense when a lass could be convinced to break the rules, play with him . . . Meggie had been challenging indeed, and he’d needed all his considerable skills to win her. He may have made promises he had no intention of keeping, but who remembered what was said so long ago? He hadn’t meant a single sweet word he’d whispered in Meggie’s pretty ear. Had she believed him? He almost chuckled out loud. He’d been betrothed to Euna—the ink was still wet on the contract—and his bride and her rich MacKay tocher were waiting for him . . .
Charming Meggie had never been more than a wee game to him.
And now? He calculated the odds of seducing her again, having her in his bed this time, instead of a hayloft. And with Euna dead, he needed another rich bride. Meggie’s tocher would be generous, as ample and mouthwatering as the woman herself.
Christmas in Kilts Page 10
