“They’ll need something to eat first, and a chance to warm themselves,” Meggie said, her cheeks still burning. Magnus waved to his steward, who nodded.
“It will be a merry Yule indeed,” Seanmhair said as two of the newcomers began to play a merry tune on the flute and drum while food and drink was brought out.
After the meal, a lad played a harp, and a lass in a dress white as the snow outside danced with bells on her fingers. Meggie glanced at her grandmother, who was watching the performance with a delighted smile.
But beside Seanmhair, MacAulay wasn’t looking at the graceful dancer.
He was staring at her.
Meggie’s heart flipped in her breast, and her mouth watered. He picked up his cup and sipped, and she swallowed, as if the liquid was sliding down her own throat. He didn’t look away, and she felt her skin heat, felt her body tingle under his scrutiny. How different he was from Charlie and Magnus—different from any man she’d met. He watched and he listened. He didn’t flirt or look at her as if he were picturing her naked. She had the feeling that he could see her, the person inside the red gown, behind the gaudy smile, and that he preferred that woman to Meggie-the-Flirt.
Then a drummer and fiddler joined the harp, and the tempo increased. Magnus grabbed her hand and pulled her up to dance, and she could hardly refuse. MacAulay led Catriona out, and Charlie danced with the lass in the white dress.
But as she spun through the steps of the reel with Magnus, Meggie found MacAulay’s eyes, and she smiled. He smiled back. Och, he had a nice smile. Then Magnus lifted her high, and slid her down the entire length of his body until her feet touched the floor. “You’re blushing Meggie. Happy memories?”
It made her remember. Nay. Not happy at all. He’d told Charlie. Then a thought of such horror struck her she could scarcely breathe. Did MacAulay know too?
The simple pleasure of dancing was gone, and she stumbled to a halt. “I need some air. I’m tired,” she said. “I—” She turned away from Magnus, and hurried out of the hall.
Outside the door, she picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, needing solitude and a chance to think.
“Meggie.”
Magnus was following her, damn him. She couldn’t outrun him. She stopped and turned to look at him. He kept climbing the stairs, grinning the same charming smile that had stopped her heart when she was eighteen, made her imagine he loved her, that he could see her, that she could trust him.
He reached her, stood a step below her, which put his eyes level with her own. She remembered how it felt to be close to him, to feel him sliding his hand around her waist, drawing her in for a kiss. She could have him now, marry him . . .
But as he came closer, she pulled back, moved up a step, felt her throat close with anger at his cocky grin. She’d meant nothing at all, just a conquest. Was she still Was every woman a conquest to him? She held up her hand to warn him back when he reached for her again. She itched to grab her dirk. “You told Charlie MacKay about me and . . .”
He shrugged, his eyes heavy lidded now, his breathing heavy from climbing the stairs—or lust. “Did I? He might have simply guessed, seeing the flame that burns between us still.” He caressed her upper arm, and the silk warmed instantly. Then his grip tightened. “Don’t ye feel it, Meggie? ’Twas fate that brought us back together, and I’m glad. I’ve thought of ye often, missed ye, wished . . .”
He was leaning toward her, pulling her, his lips puckering, his eyes drifting shut, his fingers digging into her arm. He meant to have her, willing or not. It was surprise, not fear, that coursed through her. She turned her head and his kiss fell on her cheek instead of her mouth. She put her hands against Magnus’s chest to hold him off, shove him away.
She heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. MacAulay was climbing the steps. He reached them, passed them, and didn’t stop. He merely nodded, glanced at her, then away, his expression unreadable.
Magnus swore under his breath and ran his hand through his hair. “Damn MacAulay,” he said. “Let’s go to my chamber, Meggie.”
Meggie stepped out of reach. “No.”
He frowned. “Will ye make me beg, chase ye?”
She turned away. “I don’t play those kinds of games, Magnus—and it wasn’t fate that brought us together again. It was just bad weather.”
* * *
Before Magnus could think of a suitable reply, the kind of words that would seduce her all over again, charm her, have her running for his chamber, hot and panting, there were still more footsteps on the stairs, and Magnus bit back a curse. The big MacLennan clansman came into view carrying Maighread MacLennan. The old lady looked at him and then at Meggie, her blue eyes speculative.
“There ye are, granddaughter. Ye left so suddenly I feared ye were ill.”
“A headache,” Meggie said, ignoring Magnus completely. He frowned, but the old woman nodded to her bearer.
“Then ye’d best come with me, and I’ll get ye a tonic for it.”
Maighread looked at Magnus. “Thank ye for escorting her this far, Laird. The party is just getting started below. They’ll be looking for ye.”
Magnus stood where he was for a moment, frustration and lust warring with the notion of simply throwing Meggie over his shoulder and hauling her to his bed. The right of a laird, perhaps? But Meggie’s glare warned him back. What was there to do but nod and go? But he looked at Meggie, at the white mounds of luscious flesh above the temptingly low bodice of her gown, at her lush lips. Och, she wanted him. How could she not? She had wanted him once . . .
He wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. Especially when there was a wager to win. He grinned at her and bowed, the gesture awkward on the stairs. “I shall see you later, Meggie,” he said, and reluctantly went back downstairs.
* * *
Meggie followed her grandmother, her expression careful, her ears pricked as she listened to Magnus’s retreat. She drank the potion to satisfy her grandmother, pleaded tiredness, and went to her own chamber. She shut the door behind her and leaned on it as she shot the bolt.
“Damn Magnus MacVane,” she muttered aloud. She took the dirk out of her sleeve, and placed it on the table beside the bed, where she could reach it.
She crossed the room to remove her gown, her fingers quick and angry on the laces. Did Magnus truly think she was still as foolish as a green girl of eighteen? She’d been so young, so niave, such easy prey. . . . She stepped out of the gown, tossed it over the chair, and plucked the pins from her hair with ruthless efficiency. She glanced at the bed, but she was too angry to sleep. In her shift, she paced the floor. She certainly wasn’t a girl now. She was a woman grown, with a woman’s needs, and much, much more sense. “Ye’d be a loyal and loving wife, and ye’d not stray from the man ye loved, or who loved ye,” MacAulay had said.
But she had been in love, or thought she was. She’d been too stupid to see it wasn’t real. Her lover had been false and faithless.
She would not risk her heart again.
She crossed to the curtain that hid the window alcove and pushed the drape aside to stare out at the snow that kept her a prisoner here. It was so delicate, so pretty, so enticing, and yet so cold and cruel, a trap. Just like love. She felt tears sting her eyes.
“Fool!” she said aloud, and wondered if she meant herself or Magnus.
* * *
Hugh didn’t bother with a candle when he got to his room. The dark suited his black mood. It appeared Magnus had won. Meggie had been in his arms, kissing him, not even bothering to wait for the privacy of MacVane’s bed. Like two turtledoves . . . He clenched his fists. It shouldn’t matter—she wasn’t his.
Still, he glared at his own bed, shadowy and lonely in the snow light that filtered through the window. By now Meggie was probably in Magnus’s chamber, spread naked on the soft furs as—With a curse, Hugh tore the furs off this bed and tossed them into the corner.
In the morning, Magnus would claim victory, and Hugh would win Catrio
na. She’d be as good a wife as any, he told himself. He’d waited too long to declare his reason for coming to Gleanngalla. He’d been caught in a foolish lad’s game, and now it would humiliate all of them. He shut his eyes. From the start, he’d known he no hope of winning Meggie. It shouldn’t bother him now, but it did. And if Catriona found out why Hugh had hesitated in offering for her, that he’d held off on the forlorn hope of winning another woman, it would tarnish their relationship from the start. There’d be no chance of trust, or partnership, or love. And even if Catriona didn’t suspect, he’d know. The truth would always remain, even if he never admitted it aloud—Catriona MacVane was not the wife he wanted.
He wanted Meggie MacLeod—and not for her face, or her fortune, or her father’s power, but because she was clever, and kind, and brave—more than the flirt she let the world see.
Or was she? He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, hard, trying to banish the image of her in Magnus’s arms.
He went to the window to stare out at the snow. Then across from him, in the opposite tower, a curtain moved, and light shone out. He recognized the figure standing there, staring into the night. He knew the spill of Meggie’s golden hair. He could see the silhouette of her body through the delicate fabric of her white shift. She couldn’t see him in the dark, didn’t know he was there.
Hugh knew he should step away, close his own curtain, respect her privacy, but he stood and watched her. He couldn’t bring himself to look away.
Foolish hope soared. She was alone. His chest tightened, and he swallowed.
But then she turned and looked toward the door. He watched her cross and open it.
He didn’t wait to watch Magnus enter. He closed his own his curtain, and by the glow of the brazier, he crossed the room to splash whisky in a cup, enough to reach the rim. Then he swallowed it all in a single gulp and poured another.
* * *
“Catriona,” Meggie said, as she opened the door to her friend.
Catriona entered the room, her eyes bright. “I think I’ve found someone I’d like to marry.” Meggie looked at her in surprise. “MacAulay was chivalrous today, kind, don’t you think?”
Meggie felt a lump in her throat. “Aye,” she agreed. “He was very kind, and very chivalrous.”
“Then I think I’ll marry him instead of Charlie.”
“Do you—love him?” Meggie asked. “My father says a lass hears fairy bells when she is in love with the right man—”
“Love? Fairy bells?” Catriona frowned. “What are ye talking about, Meggie? Marrying MacAulay means I won’t have to marry Charlie, and it would infuriate Magnus if I made my own choice. I suppose I might come to love him someday—or at least like him. Don’t you think MacAulay would make a fine husband?”
She did . . . “I do.” She forced herself to say it out loud. Meggie felt—what? Jealousy? Heartbreak? Nay. She knew nothing of MacAulay—except he was kind, and gentle, a reluctant laird who needed . . .
Ach, how many times had her sisters come to her with their eyes shining, asking Meggie to help them win the man they loved, to stand with them to convince their father that this man was the only man in the world for them? She did so every time. But until now, this moment, it had never felt like she was sacrificing her own happiness for theirs. Ye’d be a loyal and loving wife . . . Nay, she was destined to be a maiden aunt, a spinster.
She did what she always did. She forced a wide, bright, Meggie grin, and took Catriona’s hands in hers. “How wonderful!” she gushed.
“I knew ye’d say that,” Catriona said, and Meggie hugged Catriona just the way she would have hugged one of her own sisters, told her what a beautiful bride she’d be.
“Imagine when I tell Magnus. And won’t Charlie be surprised? Will you help me choose a fetching gown and do my hair like yours? I’ll need to make MacAulay want to accept when I propose to him.”
Did MacAulay get no say at all? “Aye, but—”
Catriona caught her hand. “Dearest Meggie. How wonderful you are! We’ll start tomorrow morning. Come to my chamber early.”
And with that, Catriona whirled out the door as fast as she’d come.
Meggie stared at the oak panels for a long moment. Perhaps she should allow Magnus to charm her again. At least this time she was in a position to ensure that he married her. This time she’d settle for nothing less.
But when the laird of Gleanngalla came scratching at her door in the wee hours of the night, he found it bolted and barred, and Meggie pulled the pillow over her head and feigned sleep.
Chapter Six
December 23, 1711
Hugh descended to the hall the next morning with his teeth gritted, but avoiding the news would make it no easier to hear. Best to get it over with then remember an urgent reason to ride out, even though the storm still raged. He paused with his hand on the latch, braced himself.
Inside, Magnus would be grinning the grin of a man who’d spent all night in the arms of Meggie MacLeod.
And she’d be sitting beside MacVane, smiling that knowing, sleepy-cat grin women had when they’ve been well bedded.
And he’d smile too—even if it choked him—and give them his congratulations. Then he’d speak up and offer for Catriona at last.
But when he walked into the hall, Magnus’s face was as dark as thunder, and Meggie was nowhere to be seen, though her grandmother was breaking her fast among her own clansmen.
Hugh sat beside his host. He opened his mouth to ask for Catriona’s hand in marriage, but a maidservant set a platter of food on the table between them. Three wee little hens, roasted and served in the French style, with onions and herbs, kicked their plump and pretty legs at the two lairds. Magnus grabbed one of the succulent little birds, tore off a tiny drumstick, held it carefully between thumb and forefinger and nibbled on it morosely.
“Help yourself,” Magnus said. “I’m beginning to think a hen is the only kind of female that will cause a man no trouble at all.”
“What of indigestion?” Hugh asked.
“My cook is excellent,” Magnus said, picking up a second miniature drumstick. “And the whisky will wash it all down.”
Foolish hope rose in Hugh’s breast. He wanted to ask what had happened—or not happened—the night before. But before her could speak, Meggie entered the room with Catriona by her side. Meggie was dressed plainly in a saffron wool gown, borrowed, most likely. It fit her well, emphasized her sleek figure. But compared to the red brocade, it was simple and subdued. She didn’t look like a woman who’d been well bedded—she looked almost demure. She didn’t even glance at Magnus as she crossed to sit with her grandmother.
Catriona, on the other hand, wore an elegant gown of emerald green silk, more suited to a ball than breakfast. The rich color glowed in the snow light that filtered through the windows and made the most of her dramatic coloring. Her red hair was looped up in a stylish coif atop her head, and she was actually smiling.
At him.
Hugh felt a bolt of surprise—or possibly dread—hit him.
“What now?” Magnus muttered, watching his sister approach the table.
Hugh acknowledged Catriona with a simple nod and looked at Meggie again. Her eyes were flitting around the hall, and he waited in vain for them to land on him. Her hands were clasped before her and she looked—anxious.
It was as if she and Catriona had switched personalities. Catriona was bold and confident, and Meggie . . . Hugh frowned. Something was wrong. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes this morning, and he saw dark circles under her lower lashes.
“Good morning, Laird MacAulay,” Catriona said, slipping into the seat beside him.
“Good morning, Mistress MacVane,” he said.
“Ye can call me Catriona. I see it’s still snowing,” she said sweetly. She was batting her copper lashes at him, and God help him, it was dread he felt.
“Still snowing?” Magnus said, frowning at his sister. “Of course it’s still snowing. It’s
colder than a woman’s heart out there. Three families arrived this morning, saying ye invited them to come if they felt the cold too keenly. Cold—this is Scotland, of course it’s cold! If the snow gets any deeper, it will reach the turrets outside, and all the people seeking shelter will fill it up inside and we’ll be here till the crack of doom, never mind Yule.”
But Catriona just laughed. “My, someone’s a greannach gille this morn. Are ye are grumpy boy, Magnus?” she teased, and he glared at her petulantly.
“Look, here comes Charlie,” he sniped back.
Catriona’s grin faded.
But Charlie was nearly knocked down by a cow being led into the hall by a wee lass. The beast was balky, snow-covered, and bellowing her displeasure. The animal pinned the laird of Dunlinton to the wall and regarded him balefully. Catriona began to laugh loudly, holding her sides and pointing at Charlie’s obvious discomfort.
She got to her feet and set her hands on her hips. “Now there’s a lass ye should wed,” Catriona called.
Charlie cursed and shoved at the cow’s flanks, but she only mooed and leaned harder while the wee lass tugged vainly on the leading rope.
Hugh began to rise, but Meggie was quicker. He watched as she hurried across the room to the child and her cow.
“There’s no room in the stable,” the child said. “We couldn’t leave her behind—we need Effie for milk for my baby brother.”
“Then we’ll find a storeroom for her,” Meggie said with a smile. She swung the girl up onto the cow’s back and led the beast out as easily as if she’d been herding cattle and bairns all her life.
Hugh’s heart swelled. Now there was the kind of brave, resourceful, clever wife a laird needed. He pictured her holding his young cousin Sandy, making him smile even as she charmed the elders into submission about like the bovine bampots they were. Aye, Meggie would brighten the gloom at Abercorry considerably, if she didn’t banish it entirely. He realized her was smiling, and he flattened his features.
He was here to offer for Catriona.
Charlie straightened his plaid and glowered at Catriona. He was as pale as a ghost after his encounter with Effie. He grabbed a cup of ale off the nearest table and swallowed it. Then he crossed the room and slumped into the seat next to Catriona. In Hugh’s opinion, as the current ranking lady at Gleanngalla—at least until Magnus remarried—Catriona should have been the one to see to the cow. But Meggie was behaving more like the lady of Gleanngalla—was she expecting to be? Had Magnus won after all? Hugh’s stomach tightened, and his ale tasted sour. But the Laird of Gleanngalla frowned at the crowds that were filling his hall with melting snow, wet plaids, and wailing bairns. “See to all this,” he ordered his steward, and strode out of the room.
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