Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  He took it from her gently, his cold fingers brushing hers, and tucked it into his pocket. “Aye. It’s a gift for my wee cousin. It’s easier to work out here, where I won’t make a mess. I wanted to have it done by Christmas, but I suppose it doesn’t matter so much now, since the weather will keep me here.” His eyes scanned her face for a moment, and then fell to her mouth. Her lips tingled. Then Catriona appeared behind her, and MacAulay looked over Meggie’s shoulder at her. Meggie felt the loss of his attention keenly.

  “Madainn mhath, good morning. Are ye off somewhere?” he asked Catriona.

  “Just to visit a few of my kin to make sure they’re safe from the storm and not in need of anything,” Catriona replied. She crossed to bring a garron out of its stall to saddle him. Meggie reached a bridle down from a hook.

  “Then I’ll come with ye, see you’re safe,” MacAulay said.

  “Oh, but there’s no need for that,” Meggie said, but he looked at her with a slight frown and took the bridle from her hands.

  “There’s every need. The weather is poor, and even a short trip might be dangerous. If ye’d prefer other company, we can wake Magnus or your own MacLeod escorts, but you’ll not ride out into a storm all alone.”

  “How chivalrous of ye, Laird MacAulay,” Catriona said. “There’s little room in any of the wee cotts for a tail of men, but one man would be welcome.” She gave him a sweet smile, and Meggie watched as he considered that smile, then nodded and returned one to her before turning to saddle two more horses. Catriona’s eyes shone as she watched him work, and even Meggie noted the flex and play of his muscles under his saffron shirt. He was leaner than Magnus, and taller. A cat, Meggie thought. If Magnus was a bear, as Seanmhair had said, and Charlie was a fox, then MacAulay was a great sleek cat, graceful and lithe. She turned away to tie the baskets to the saddled garrons.

  “Aren’t ye cold?” Catriona asked MacAulay.

  “I’ve a plaid to wear outside.” He glanced at Meggie, then back at Catriona. “Will the two of ye be warm enough?” He glanced at the visible part of Meggie’s gown as if he expected her to be wearing low-cut red silk even now. She raised her chin and wrapped her thick MacLeod plaid more tightly around herself and her sensible blue woolen gown.

  When they were ready to ride out, MacAulay lifted Catriona onto her horse. Meggie watched his big hands span her waist, saw Catriona blush and smile. Meggie quickly mounted her garron on her own and was ready when he turned to her. He lifted one eyebrow, and she met his gaze briefly, boldly, taking up the reins to show him she was capable all by herself. Then she fixed her eyes on the white glare of the snow as MacAulay swung the door wide to let them out.

  * * *

  They stopped at four cotts and were warmly welcomed, offered whatever food and drink the household had on hand. Catriona’s gifts were gratefully accepted.

  While the laird’s sister caught up on clan news and gossip, and invited everyone to come and take shelter and celebrate the season at the castle if the weather got any worse, Meggie rocked fractious bairns or stirred soup, helping where she could, just as she would have done at Glen Iolair. The pang in her chest grew sharper as she wondered how her own kin might be faring in the storm.

  The first new snowflakes of the renewed storm were beginning to fall as they reached the last house, a fair distance from its neighbors. “Parlan MacVane lives here with his granddaughter,” Catriona said as they dismounted. “He’s a proud man who doesn’t like help. That means Peigi doesn’t have an easy time of it on her own. Parlan’s been ill of late, and the weather is probably making it worse.”

  “Then he’ll not want so many strangers in his home,” MacAulay said. He carried Catriona’s basket to the door and stepped back. “Go inside, and I’ll go and cut some firewood for them,” he said, pointing to a pile of logs outside a wee barn. Meggie followed him, not wishing to invade Parlan’s home if he preferred his privacy.

  He unwound his plaid and began to work, each blow of the axe splitting the wood cleanly.

  Meggie picked up a load of firewood, carried it to the door, and returned for more.

  “What are ye doing?” MacAulay asked.

  “Carrying firewood,” she said, though it was obvious. He leaned on the axe for a moment, amused.

  “A daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod, carrying firewood in her fine silks.”

  “I’m wearing wool, same as Catriona—” She looked down the strong, lean length of his body, at the linen shirt and woolen trews he wore under his kilt “—and yourself, MacAulay. My father expects his lasses to live useful lives, and we do.”

  “Can ye cook?” he asked.

  She shot him sharp look. “Aye—everything from porridge to venison, and I can dress the deer if I have to.”

  “But ye don’t like to, do ye? And ye probably prefer not to shoot the beast yourself.” He began chopping again.

  It was true enough. “I don’t like to see creatures suffer.”

  “Ye’ve a tender heart.” He split a log and turned it to split the halves again.

  “As do you,” she said. He looked at her in surprise.

  “How can ye tell that when we’ve known each other less than a day?”

  “By the carving you’re making for your cousin. By the fact that you’re here, cutting wood, fetching and carrying like a clansman instead of a laird—and it isn’t even your own clan.”

  He colored slightly. “I wasn’t born a laird. I was a clansman until last spring. I had a cott and a cow, and I stood guard duty and served my uncle as a warrior until he died.” He hit the log harder with the next blow, sending splinters flying. His jaw was tight, and his knuckles white on the handle of the axe. “The blood of Ranald MacAulay in my veins made me the next laird. No other reason.”

  “Don’t want to be laird?” she asked, surprised.

  He shot her a hard look and brought the axe down again. The log split cleanly in half, and he set one piece up again on the chopping block. “The elders of my clan fear I’m not smart enough, or strong enough, or that the clan would not follow me without their guidance.” He sneered the word “guidance”. He split the log again, his muscles flexing, and reached for the next. “But the clan wants me, if only because I’m Ranald MacAulay’s grandson, and Ranald was the last good laird they had. I am the last of his line, and that gives them some measure of hope.”

  Meggie folded her arms across her chest. “And what do you think? Can you rule?”

  He searched her face before he answered, and she held his eyes. “Given the chance, aye. I’ve lived among the clan, and they haven’t. And I was at the castle every day, watching my grandfather and my uncles. I know what needs to be done, what improvements must be made. I ken my clan needs happiness and security and strength to survive and thrive. They need—”

  “You,” Meggie said, smiling. “You sound like the right laird to me. The best kind of laird. You lead with your heart, and you’re willing to work hard to help your kin—right down to chopping firewood. It’s what my father would do.”

  He looked at her dubiously. “The Fearsome MacLeod chops firewood?”

  She shrugged. “Well not often, but he would if it was required. A good laird leads by example, not by being better than his folk, but by making them feel important by listening, helping, protecting.”

  He resumed work with a smile. “Ye sound like ye’d make a fine laird yourself, lass.”

  “And so I will be, once Seanmhair is gone.”

  “Aye—Seannbrae will be yours. Won’t your husband have something to say about how things are done?”

  She looked away, studied her hands. “I won’t marry. I’d make a terrible wife.”

  He laughed “Ye’d be a handful. You’re bonny, and a husband would fear other men might steal ye. But I suspect ye’d—”

  He paused.

  “I’d what?” she prompted.

  He set the axe aside to reach for another log. “Ye’d be loyal and loving, and ye’d not stray from the man y
e loved, if he loved ye.”

  She blinked at him. “How do you—”

  He gave her a slow smile. “How do I know? I see ye with your grandmother, and with Catriona, and I hear the way ye speak of your sisters and your father. I saw the way ye cared for countless bairns and old folk today, and this is not your clan, either.” He looked across the wee barn at her, scanned her hair and her tightly wrapped plaid. He crossed the floor and stood so close she had to look up to hold his gaze. “There’s more to ye than a red gown and a pretty face, Meggie MacLeod.”

  He was staring, but so was she. She wondered if he intended to kiss her. She wasn’t entirely against the idea, but warning bells sounded in her head. She did what she always did, out of habit, though this man made her heart beat faster. She pasted on a bold grin, retreated into Meggie-the-Flirt, and batted her lashes at him. “Why, Laird MacAulay, I daresay you’re trying to steal a kiss.”

  He blinked, and the spell was broken. He turned away to stack the firewood he’d cut. “Nay, I’ll not steal one, Meggie MacLeod. I’d rather have one that’s freely given. Those kind of kisses are sweeter than stolen ones.”

  She felt her stomach tilt and her heart kick her ribs. She folded her arms across her chest, a protective gesture, and raised her chin. “Then ye’ll wait a long time. I never kiss men I don’t know,” she quipped, needing to lighten the moment.

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  And what more was there to say to that? Her cheeks burned and her body tingled as she gathered a basket of kindling and hurried away, and her head full of imagining what it would be like to kiss MacAulay—not a flirtatious peck, but a real kiss, at long last.

  * * *

  Hugh watched Meggie MacLeod walk away, her back straight, her arms full of firewood and kindling like a peasant lass. He could picture her at his wee cott, milking the cow with her skirts kilted, or baking bannock by the fire, just as well as he could see her in a grand hall in her decadent red gown. What a lady she’d make for Abercorry. If she didn’t charm the elders, she’d terrify them, an iron fist in a lace-edged red silk glove.

  His mouth had watered to kiss her, but as he stood staring at her mouth, he knew he wanted more than a kiss, more than a tumble.

  He wanted her, and he wanted her forever.

  But she would soon belong to Magnus or Charlie MacKay. He hoped she didn’t give in, that she left them empty handed, spoiled the wager, and walked away unscathed. He shook his head. Someday, when she was lady of Seannbrae and they met as neighbors, he’d remember her just as she was today, carrying firewood with her head high, and he’d regret his restraint and wonder forever what it would have been like to kiss her.

  He heard the sound of garrons in the snow, and he drew his sword and hurried after Meggie, but she’d gone inside. Magnus and Charlie rode up to the door, their horses blowing from a fast ride through the deep snow.

  They looked suspiciously at Hugh.

  “Where’s Meggie?” Magnus demanded.

  Hugh jerked his head at the cott. “Inside, with Catriona.”

  Charlie let out a sigh of relief and slid off his horse. “We thought ye’d stolen her, lad. Ye didn’t kiss her, did ye?”

  Almost . . . Hugh raised one eyebrow. “I’ve been busy chopping firewood,” he said. Charlie made a face, and Magnus gaped at him.

  The door opened, and Catriona ducked out under the low thatch. Meggie followed.

  When Meggie saw Magnus and Charlie striding purposefully toward her, her smile faded.

  Magnus took one of her arms in his fist. “There ye are. I was worried when I heard ye were out alone,” he said, grinning at her.

  Charlie MacKay caught her other arm. “Ye should be back at the castle, where it’s warm,” he said, leaning close.

  “I was with Catriona and MacAulay and two dozen of your own folk. Their fires are as warm as any, thanks to the MacAulay,” Meggie said, pulling out of their grip. MacAulay almost grinned at his bonny champion. She was angry now, but she gave him a smile to rival the sun on a summer morn, and he felt his heart spin in his chest. “Peigi MacVane says thank you, MacAulay. The wood will last her a week, and—”

  Magnus glanced at Hugh, his eyes narrowing, and Charlie laughed. “I thought ye were joking when ye said ye were cutting wood.”

  “Ye should try it yourself,” Catriona said, walking past him to her garron.

  Charlie opened his mouth to reply in kind, then closed it. Instead he watched as Catriona mounted her garron and smiled at MacAulay. “Thank ye for your help today,” she said sweetly as she turned the horse to ride out.

  Charlie stared after her. “Was that Catriona?” he asked in surprise. “She looked—”

  “Pretty.” Meggie found the word for him.

  Charlie stared down the track in surprise.

  “We’d best get back. There’ll be more snow before long,” Magnus said.

  He put his hands on Meggie’s waist and lifted her onto her garron. He grinned at her, held her a moment longer than necessary. She felt his thumbs slide upward against the undersides of her breasts. His lips puckered, and he leaned toward her. She gave the garron a kick, forcing Magnus to let go, intent on getting away from the men behind her as quickly as possible. But the trail was thick with snow, and she had to settle for a fast walk. Unfortunately, Charlie and Magnus easily caught up to her, and rode beside her, bragging and arguing. Meggie glanced behind her, but MacAulay was riding far behind, and she felt the loss of his company keenly.

  * * *

  That evening, Hugh sat in the hall waiting for Meggie to come down. He supposed his thoughts should be on Catriona—he hadn’t even spoken to the lass he planned to marry. He glanced at Magnus and Charlie, who were also watching the door, looking eager. The wager was on, and Meggie MacLeod was now fair game. Hugh wondered if he should have warned her. Hell, he could have kissed her himself today, won the wager. He’d had the chance . . .

  She entered the room in a blaze of red silk. She scanned the hall, and her eyes passed over Magnus and Charlie and settled on him. Hugh felt a shock rush through him. He saw her blush deepen, and she began to move toward him. But Magnus and Charlie galloped across the room toward her, and she stopped, her smile fading as she braced for their onslaught.

  Magnus took her hand, kissed it, pushed her sleeve aside to kiss all the way up her wrist. Ah, there was the infamous dirk—Hugh saw the hilt gleaming against her white skin. He saw Magnus glance at it and frown. But Meggie simply withdrew her hand and let her lace sleeve fall over the weapon. Charlie MacKay took one of her arms, and Magnus grabbed the other, and together they half led, half dragged her to the table and seated her between them. She wasn’t blushing now. She was flushed with surprise and annoyance, and she didn’t look at Hugh again.

  And if she had?

  He sipped his ale. Ah, there would have been nothing for it but to rescue her. But he suspected—knew—that Meggie MacLeod was more than capable of rescuing herself.

  * * *

  Seated between Charlie and Magnus, Meggie had no need to speak—or any opportunity for that matter. Compliments flew around her, and the two lairds glared at each other over her head.

  “Your eyes are like diamonds,” Magnus said, leaning far too close to her left ear, his hand on her arm, his knuckles brushing her breast.

  “Nay, they’re more like sapphires,” Charlie countered. “Or violets.”

  “Nobody has eyes like violets,” Magnus said. “Her eyes are blue.”

  “Nay—they’re violet.” Charlie argued. “And her hair is like . . .”

  “Hay?” Magnus interrupted. “Remember, Meggie? The hay loft?”

  But Charlie wound a curl of her hair around his finger. “More like a chain made of gold. Do ye like gold, Meggie?”

  “She likes red things,” Magnus said, boldly running his fingertip along the edge of her bodice. “Like garnets or rubies.”

  “Her lips are rubies. Or holly berries, perhaps,” Charlie said.

  “Which
are poisonous,” Meggie pointed out, but they weren’t listening. They’d moved on to comparing her hands to the wings of swans and ducks and gulls. She hoped they stopped before they reached her teeth, or her cheeks, or her ears. She glanced at MacAulay, who was seated next to Seanmhair. As if she’d called his name, he looked up, and his gaze locked with hers. She felt her breath catch, and her heart began to beat faster. For an instant, the air in the room thickened, grew warmer, and time stopped.

  Then Charlie tugged on her sleeve like a puppy begging for attention, and MacAulay turned away as Seanmhair spoke to him, and the spell was broken.

  * * *

  Magnus and Charlie quickly moved on to a debate of manly prowess, and Meggie was asked to weigh in on which laird she thought could carry a heifer the farthest. Thankfully, before she could answer, Gleanngalla’s steward appeared. “There’s folk at the door seeking shelter from the storm, Laird. Will ye welcome them?”

  “This is becoming a habit,” Magnus said.

  “Perhaps it’s more long lost lovers come to see ye,” Charlie said, and Meggie turned to stare at Magnus in horror.

  He’d told Charlie MacKay . . .

  Her belly tightened and her supper threatened to come back up. But Magnus was rising, and a dozen travelers were entering the hall. Seanmhair clapped her hands. “Mummers!” she cried gleefully.

  “Aye, mistress,” said a large man, grinning at her even as he bowed low to Magnus. “We travel from castle to castle at the Yule, seeking a few coins, good company, and warm place to lay our heads. We’d be glad to entertain ye and your kin with stories, dance, and music in exchange for shelter from the storm, Laird MacVane.”

  Magnus looked at Meggie. “Then tonight we’ll have dancing. What do ye say Meggie?”