When Meggie returned from seeing to the cow, another family came in with her, cold and rosy cheeked. She carried a fractious bairn on one hip. Hugh couldn’t look away. She beckoned to her clansmen. The big MacLeod warriors immediately sprang into action, helping to move tables to make space for the newcomers, and doing it happily. Anything for Meggie.
He knew how they felt.
Hugh left Catriona trading insults with Charlie and crossed the room to help where he could.
For the next several hours, as the snow fell outside, folk streamed in. Meggie handed out blankets and plaids. She played with children and rocked crying infants while their mothers warmed themselves by the fire. Maighread MacLennan told stories that had her listeners transfixed, and four of the mummers whistled clever birdcalls across the hall to each other to amuse the crowd.
Soon, the steward was conferring with Meggie about how to handle the problem of too many folk in too small a space. On her direction, mothers were housed in the solar with their babes, and pallets were laid in extra chambers and storerooms until everyone had a place to lay their heads. Hugh and one of the MacLeods were put in charge of caring for the horses, cows, and dogs that came in with the villagers. They were the most prized possessions of these folks and couldn’t be left behind.
And still, as merry mayhem ruled inside, the storm raged outside, and the snow continued to fall. When Hugh passed Meggie in the hall, he caught her arm.
“Ye need to rest,” he said. She smelled like summer flowers in a room that reeked of wet wool. A curl of golden hair had escaped from her braid, and he had already half lifted his hand to push it behind her ear when she did it herself. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. And then someone tugged on her sleeve, and she was gone again, a whirl of golden hair, saffron wool, and violet eyes, and he stood staring after her, mesmerized.
* * *
MacAulay was a good man, and kind. He gave orders, and her MacLeod clansmen, and the MacLennans, and even the MacVanes happily followed them. He led with a smile, worked with the other men, was kind and polite and very chivalrous indeed, and he made Meggie’s heart flutter.
She was aware of MacAulay as if they were the only two people in the room. She could feel him through the crowds, sense when he was looking at her. It made her breath catch in her throat. She could fall in love with this man, trust him, she thought. He glanced at her again, and she couldn’t help smiling at him. And when he smiled back, she felt her toes curl in her shoes.
She went to ask Catriona for more blankets, but before Catriona could reply, a young woman approached. “Mistress, ye were kind enough to come to my cott yesterday to see my grandfather. She bit her lip. “Please—I need help.”
Meggie looked into the lass’s desperate eyes. She was still wrapped in her plaid, her lips blue with cold, the ends of her hair frozen.
“Peigi, welcome. How is your grandfather feeling? Better I hope,” Catriona said as Meggie looked around for the old man who’d been bedridden with a bad cough the day before, but tears filled Peigi MacVane’s eyes.
“Nay, he’s worse. I had to leave him at the cott and come for help. I couldn’t make him come with me. Truth to tell, I was afraid he wouldn’t make it through the storm. Now I’m afraid the fire will go out, and he’s all alone.”
“I’ll go,” Meggie said at once, and Catriona nodded.
“There’s a shorter way, through the wood. I’ll get the steward to prepare a basket for us with food and medicine and extra blankets. I’ll meet ye in the stable in fifteen minutes.”
Meggie hurried upstairs and found the pair of woolen trews she wore under her skirts when she traveled, both for warmth and so she could ride astride. She put them on and tied them at the waist under her gown. She wrapped a shawl and a scarf around her shoulders and neck and pulled her thick MacLeod arisaid over her gown.
She hurried down the stairs, and met Charlie MacKay coming up. “What’s this? Where are ye going?”
“With Catriona. One of her clansmen needs help.”
Charlie followed her. “Catriona’s going out in the storm?” he asked. “And ye?”
“Aye,” Meggie said.
“Alone?”
“Catriona knows the way. It shouldn’t take very long. There’s no need to drag others out in the cold.”
“The devil there isn’t,” Charlie said, serious for once. “I’m coming with ye. Ye’ll need a man.”
Before she could convince him that two canny lasses could certainly handle the challenge of a short trip in the snow, Charlie MacKay grabbed a plaid off a hook by the door and followed her out to the stable.
MacAulay was there with Catriona. He looked up as Meggie entered.
“I had to tell someone we’re going, and I couldn’t find Magnus. Laird MacAulay insists on coming with us,” Catriona said. She glared at Charlie “What are ye doing here?”
“Ye’re not going out in the storm alone. Ye’ll need a man,” Charlie repeated. He glanced at MacAulay. “An extra man.”
“Then go and find one. Ye were bested by a cow,” Catriona said.
Charlie crossed the floor and leaned so close he and Catriona were nearly nose-to-nose. “I’m as much of a man as ye are, Catriona MacVane.”
Catriona flushed scarlet. “Can ye saddle a garron?” she asked tartly.
“Of course,” Charlie said. He began to do that.
“Did ye bring whisky?” Catriona asked.
Charlie glared at her. “It’s winter, and there may be need of it for more than drinking. And in anticipation of your next question, it’s in a flask. I’m not drunk.”
“Well that’s a change,” Catriona drawled.
MacAulay cleared his throat. “If the pair of ye are finished arguing, we’d best make haste. Mount up or take yourselves back inside.”
Meggie felt a moment of admiration and gratitude for his leadership.
MacAulay lifted her onto the horse and scanned her bulky, less-than-elegant appearance.
“I must look ridiculous,” she said. “But I’m warm.”
His eyes softened. “Ye look beautiful.”
Charlie picked Catriona up and set her on her horse. For a moment he stared up at her, as if he expected a tart rebuke, but Catriona simply stared back. “Wrap your plaid well,” Charlie said, and mounted his own garron. MacAulay checked the straps on the litter tied behind his horse, brought along in case they had to bring Peigi’s grandfather back to the castle.
The wind stole Meggie’s breath as soon as they rode past the gate. Charlie swore and Catriona gasped. Only MacAulay was silent, riding steadily forward, in the lead, toward the wood.
The snow was deep among the trees, and soon it was necessary to get off the garrons and walk. Catriona slipped and fell with a whoop, and Charlie picked her up. Instead of mocking her with a sharp comment, he held her until she was steady, and she clung to his arm.
When a drift of snow slid off a tree branch, the garron dragging the litter shied and tried to run. Meggie felt something tangle around her ankle under the snow. She was jerked off her feet, and the garron began to struggle, feeling itself stuck. The rope around Meggie’s leg tightened, and she cried out in pain as she fell.
Then MacAulay was there. He cut the rope with a quick swipe of his dirk, and Charlie caught the horse, calmed it.
MacAulay unlaced her boot, cupped her heel in his hand, checking. “Can ye move it?”
It hurt like the devil, but Meggie gritted her teeth. “I’m fine,” she said. She attempted to get up, but bit back a cry as hot agony shot through her ankle.
“No you’re not,” he muttered. “Sit back down. I’ll wrap it before it starts to swell, just over your stocking. We’ll see to it properly when we get ye to shelter.”
He looked at Charlie and Catriona. “Go on ahead to Peigi’s cott. Make sure the fire’s going, and heat some water.”
Catriona’s teeth were chattering. She was still wearing the green silk gown under her plaid and a fur, and she looked half-fr
ozen. She looked at Meggie. “The cott isn’t far, just a little way along the track. Will ye be all right?”
Meggie looked around her at the deep snow, the bare trees that creaked and shivered in the wind. She also looked at MacAulay, at his strong, gentle hands on her injured foot, his sober gray eyes, and knew she’d be safe with him.
“Go and see to Peigi’s grandfather,” Meggie said. “I’ll be fine with Laird MacAulay.”
“Take the garrons and the litter,” MacAulay said. “I’ll carry Meggie.”
“Here—ye’d best take the whisky,” Charlie said, pressing the flask into MacAulay’s hand before he turned to help Catriona tug the garrons through the snow.
MacAulay used a knife to cut a strip off the edge of a blanket. “This will hurt,” he said, looking at her. “But I’ll be as careful as possible.”
She clenched her jaw, fought tears, but stayed quiet as he bound her ankle.
“Brave lass,” he said when he’d done.
She gave him the ghost of a smile and moved to get up, but he stopped her.
“I’ll carry ye.”
“I’m perfectly capable of—” Meggie began, but he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.
“I’m sure I can walk,” Meggie said again, though she stayed where she was, safe against his chest, looking into his eyes.
“It’s faster to carry ye, and no trouble.”
She could feel his breath on her cheek, but she wore so many layers of clothing—and she was wrapped in her plaid, as he was wrapped in his—that she hardly felt his body under hers. But she was intensely aware of him. She traced the line of his jaw with her eyes, his high cheekbones, the curls of his hair, his firm mouth.
“You’re staring.”
She lowered her gaze. “I’m wondering if I should thank you or apologize.”
“What for?”
“I’m sorry to slow you down, to be one of two folk that need rescuing now. And thank you for carrying me.”
He raised one eyebrow. “I’ve carried ewes that weigh more than you do.”
She giggled. “What a terrible compliment.”
He looked at her fully and blushed slightly. “I don’t have much practice with compliments, but I suppose I could have done better than comparing a pretty lass to a ewe.”
She grinned at him. “Care to try?”
“Flirting is second nature to ye, isn’t it? Do ye truly want my compliments or care about my opinion? Isn’t Magnus’s opinion the one that matters to ye?”
“Magnus?” Meggie’s grin melted, and she stiffened. He sent her a sharp, canny look, and mortification streaked through her body. He knew.
Was there anyone Magnus hadn’t told?
She struggled in MacAulay’s grip. “Put me down.”
He tightened his grip instead. “Stay put—I’m going to drop ye if ye don’t keep still.”
She gave a mighty kick and rolled out of his grip—and landed in an undignified sprawl in the snow. At least it was soft. She grabbed the trunk of a tree and pulled herself upright. Her clothing was now heavy with snow, and her ankle throbbed. He caught her elbow, but she jerked her arm away. “No!”
He stepped back and waited. She wanted to stomp away down the trail, her chin high, but she had one boot on, and her other foot—she tested her weight on it and saw a red haze of pain.
She looked down the trail of broken snow that Charlie and Catriona had left. She glared at MacAulay, who stood nearby, knee deep in the snow with his arms folded over his chest, waiting. He could wait till spring for all she cared. The wind blew a chill breath down her back, and she wrapped her plaid tighter.
“Look, I don’t care who ye choose to take to your bed,” he said. “It’s not my concern. We need to get out of the cold.”
Meggie gritted her teeth. “I was eighteen.”
He barked a laugh. “Not last night, ye weren’t.”
Meggie gaped at him. “It was a kiss in a corridor!”
“I meant after—in your chamber.”
“Did Magnus say—” She felt fury fill her.
“He didn’t have to. There’s a wager, a contest Charlie MacKay came up with, to see who could be the first to kiss ye, or—” He stopped talking.
She felt hot blood flood through her from her throbbing ankle to her hairline. “Or what?” she asked. He blushed as well, looked away, scanned the trees and the snow.
“Does it matter? Magnus won.”
She felt the blood pounding in her ears, and she was certainly warm now. “I will stand here until hell freezes. What was the wager?”
He looked pained. “Lass—Meggie—I tend to babble when I’m . . .”
“What was the wager?”
He sighed, and shifted his feet in the snow. “A kiss. A proper, passionate, open-mouthed kiss, with ye willing to give it.”
She stared at him for a moment, felt her body buzz with indignation. How dare Magnus do this, or Charlie MacKay, or—She’d thought MacAulay was different. It angered her to know he was not. And she was just . . .
She cursed like a clansman and forced herself to cross the small distance between them, staggering in the snow, stumbling, her ankle objecting to every step.
When she reached MacAulay, she threw her arms around his neck and slammed her mouth against his. He caught her upper arms, and she thought he’d push her away, but he held still. She kept her mouth on his until she felt his lips soften and part, and his arms came around her, and he pulled her against him. He made a soft sound in his throat.
The moment his tongue invaded her mouth, she felt a shock run through her, and recognized the desire she’d thought long dead. It invaded her veins like whisky, warm and dangerous . . . She shoved him away, hard. He staggered backward and stared at her in surprise, the gray of his eyes subsumed by black. She put her hands on her hips.
“There, now you can tell them you won.”
She snapped a dread branch off the tree, leaned on it like an old crone, and forced herself to take a painful step forward. “Consider it my payment for your help. I’m done with you now. Whatever the prize is, I hope it’s worth it.”
He followed her, wisely keeping silent, and she kept moving. It was late afternoon now, and dark was falling. She shivered. At this rate it would take her forever to reach Peigi’s cott.
“Lass.”
She ignored him.
“Meggie.”
She shot an angry look over her shoulder and waited for an apology, or at least a simple thank you for handing him the prize.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
Her eyes widened. “Nay—it’s this way. The tracks are quite clear—” She looked ahead of her, and behind, but the wind had smoothed the snow to blank perfection, and there were no tracks at all.
Chapter Seven
Parlan MacVane was sleeping when Charlie and Catriona arrived at Peigi’s cott. They made up the fire, and Catriona heated some soup. Charlie slipped the old fellow a secret and very welcome sip of whisky from a second flask he had in his sporran. Parlan slept again, and they waited for Meggie and Hugh to arrive.
But more than an hour had passed, and dark was falling, and there was no sign of them. Catriona stood at the window, watching for them, and Charlie watched her. Her green silk gown was as out of place here as roses in the snow, but it was a bonny gown. Who knew Catriona had such a fine figure, was actually pretty? Very pretty actually. And she’d not uttered a sharp word or an insult in hours. He knew she’d been afraid out there in the snow. She’d never admit it, but she’d held tight to his arm, let him take the lead, and stayed silent. And when they arrived at the cott, she’d smiled at the old man, and then at him. That smile had tilted Charlie’s heart sideways, and it had yet to right itself.
Now she stood on her toes and craned her neck to peer out the wee window, and he had the strongest urge to go up behind her, span her narrow waist with his hands and kiss her neck. He crossed the room, but saw the cleaver was close by and ke
pt his hands to himself. When she glanced at him over her shoulder, he noted the sweet feminine lines of her cheek and chin, the length of her russet lashes, and felt his breath catch.
“They were right behind us. Where are they?” she asked him.
“Perhaps MacAulay decided it would be best to return to the castle, take Meggie straight to the healer,” he said. When she turned back to the window, he took a step closer and stared out the window with her; his head was nearly touching hers, but it was a very small window. He could smell the scent of her soap and her skin, and his body buzzed.
“It’s nearly dark,” she said, turning to look at him.
“We should probably stay here until morning,” he said. Her eyes were wide as she scanned his face. “Safer.”
“Here?” she breathed.
“We have soup, shelter, and fire, and—” he tried to think of something else. “Blankets?”
“Blankets,” she said.
“We won’t be cold.” He swallowed. “I’ll keep ye warm.”
Her brows rose, and he braced himself for a sharp quip, or a swat, or a knee in the balls that would ensure he was the last of his line, but they didn’t come.
“I’ll make some bannock,” she said, and crossed to the fire to cook for him.
* * *
MacAulay was carrying her again. There was really no choice. Meggie lay in his arms stiffly, scowling up at the sky, refusing to look at him. It was dark now, and still snowing.
“We’re lost,” she said.
Christmas in Kilts Page 16
