Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  No wonder he’d forgotten Catriona, he had his own wedding—and wedding night—to think about. If he weren’t careful it wouldn’t be his sore leg making walking uncomfortable.

  He huffed on for twenty minutes, barely looking back, forcing his mind to fill with thoughts of shackles and chains and just what he owed Mounthaven, rather than rounded breasts and lush lips. No. That was not reason for a wedding, although there was probably no way to escape this, so perhaps he should be grateful that she was so comely, because unless God himself intervened he would have to wed the lass.

  He glanced back.

  Where was she?

  He stopped, turning, feeling the ache in his thigh—and his cock. Hell. Did he have to go back and look for her?

  Yes.

  He found her just around the next corner, sitting on a fallen log, neck bowed.

  She looked up at the sound of his footfall. Her face was a picture of misery and such bitter despair as he’d only seen the like of in the mud fields of Waterloo.

  Their eyes met and her face transformed, emotion leaving it, the placid features of a true lady appearing.

  It was too late, however. He’d seen that look and something deep in his chest had shifted in a single second.

  Chapter Three

  Darn. Darn. Darn. He’d seen her looking sorrowful and now he was going to be full of pity and platitudes. She hated pity. There’d been enough of it after her father’s death to last a lifetime. At first, it hadn’t been awful. Losing a parent was rough and anyone who had experienced it looked at her with genuine feeling. But then her cousin had arrived to take over the title and estates and the looks had changed to a different type of pity.

  “Poor Lady Emma, whatever will she do now? It’s so dreadful.” God, she’d heard that phrase whispered enough times to fill a library.

  Barran didn’t say anything; he simply stood looking at her. Then he marched forward, as stiff as any soldier, and held out his hand again.

  Everything in her wanted to push it away, but that would be foolish and she was rarely foolish. Well, perhaps she was often foolish, but only when it did not matter. And this did matter. Being stranded in these woods after dark was not to be desired, it was frightening enough during the day.

  Her small hand was almost engulfed in his as he pulled her to her feet. Instantly, hot pain shot up her leg and she had to suppress a yelp.

  Barran pulled her closer, lifting her arm so it draped over his shoulder, supporting much of her weight. Her body pressed tight against him and almost instantly that bizarre feeling of security surrounded her again—and those tingles, those damn tingles. Trying hard to ignore them, she took a step and together they hobbled down the road, his warmth and strength making each step far easier than it should have been.

  They walked like that in quiet for almost an hour. It should have been awkward, but instead, it was quietly comfortable.

  After that hour, however, she began to count the steps, wondering if her ankle could survive much more.

  Abruptly, Barran stopped, turned, and stared down at her—and then, without uttering a single word, swung her up into his arms and began to stride forward again, one arm about her shoulders and one under her knees. If she’d felt warm and safe before, now she felt like she could rest her head against his shoulder and just drift peacefully, secure that nothing bad would ever happen.

  But it was never safe to trust completely in another—even if he was going to become her husband. Husband. Husband. The word echoed in her brain. She’d done her best to put the thought aside, to deal only with her present circumstance, but now, nestled against his chest, her mind echoed the word. Husband. Husband.

  Was she going to marry Barran, a man she didn’t know?

  They walked on. She did her best to hold herself stiff, to not give in to the desire to melt against him, the desire to pretend that he would solve all her problems.

  When they’d walked another half hour, she realized that he, too, was beginning to limp. She held to her own counsel for a few moments, but then could not resist. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothin’.”

  So like a man. “Well, I am beginning to feel a trifle seasick from the rocking, so I am rather sure something has changed.”

  His voice rumbled about her. “It’s just a wee hurt actin’ up, truly nothin’. Now settle you down, lass, and let me keep movin’. We’ve not far to go.”

  “Why did your voice change?”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes you sound almost English, completely unremarkable, and others the burr slips in and even the words you use change.”

  He was quiet for a moment, continuing on at a steady pace. It was completely dark now and she wondered that he could see the road.

  “Are you going to answer me?” she asked.

  “I have na’ decided.”

  “You’re doing it again. I suppose I should be surprised that you ever sound English, now that you suddenly sound like a Scot.”

  There was a low chuckle in his chest, but then she could feel his body tighten, feel the decision he was about to make. “My mother was English. She came here to marry my father, decided she hated being away from London, and left when I was about four, soon after my sister was born. My father let her keep me until I was about six and then demanded that I be returned to learn to manage the lands.”

  That was certainly more than she had expected. “How could she ever have let you go?”

  “I do not believe that she had a choice. He was her husband. He could have demanded that she return as well.”

  “But what mother would ever let her child go and not go with him?” Not that she knew much of mothers. She only had the barest memories of her own—a soft voice, a gentle touch, the sound of a soothing song—but she treasured every tiny piece of them.

  He did not answer and began to walk faster.

  The quiet did not feel natural, as it had before. “I’ve already told you that my mother was Scottish. I barely remember anything of her language, just bits and pieces in dreams sometimes. And you remember all that from when you were six. I would have thought your speech would have leaned more toward the Scot.”

  He was quiet for a moment, considering her words. “It can go either way depending on who I am with.”

  “Oh.”

  “And how tired I am. And I did spend a year or two in school in England. I believe that my mother’s father bribed mine. All the money was in her family. It was why she was allowed to leave at all.”

  Another “Oh.”

  They walked on. She let her head rest fully against his chest, hearing the beat of his heart even through the heavy coat. There were so many questions that she wanted to ask, but she sensed the silent man had reached the end—for now. If they were going to be stuck in a cabin for at least the night, then she would find a way to learn more. She wasn’t sure why she was so curious, but she found herself with an almost insatiable need to know more about him, to understand him more. It made no sense, but then feelings rarely did.

  “You can put me down if you need to.”

  “I am fine, and we are nearly there.”

  And indeed even as he spoke the words, they turned a corner and she made out a small stone cottage with a thatched roof before them. It was neat and well-kept and yet somehow desolate, as if nobody had lived here for a long time. “What is this place?”

  He walked forward, stopping about fifty yards from the cottage. “I don’t know who built it originally, but now it’s used as a hunting cabin as much as anything—although I daresay the shepherds use it sometimes. When I was younger a friend and I would stay here when we wanted to escape our fathers and the duties they demanded.”

  “And who owns it that it is left to such casual use?”

  There was a long pause and she thought it would be another of those questions he did not answer, but after a moment he spoke. “I suppose I do. It’s an odd bit of land, but . . .” His voice trailed off and he said no more, loweri
ng her legs until she could stand.

  Instantly, she missed the feeling of his arms about her, and as a result she stepped away quickly, ignoring the stab of pain. Doing her best to walk normally, she moved to the door and put her hand on the latch. “It’s not even locked.”

  There were a million more questions she should ask if he was going to be her husband, but she let them go for now, looking about with curiosity.

  “This area is known for its hospitality.” There was something odd in his tone as he answered, as he stepped by her and moved to a table in the center of the room. The sound of flint, and a few moments later a candle flickered to life. She couldn’t see much. The table was roughly hewn. There was a hearth along one wall, a simple cot along another.

  A deep shiver took her. It was much colder than she had realized; being held against Barran’s chest must have kept the true temperature at bay. She glanced back at the still-open door. The sky had begun to cloud over and there was an utter stillness to the air.

  Barran followed her gaze. “It’s good we’ve arrived. I expect we will have snow, if not a blizzard, before morning.”

  She walked to the hearth; the logs lay ready, smaller twigs under them. Turning, she saw Barran pour himself a drink from a large stoneware pitcher.

  “There’s water. It’s fresh.” He held out a tin mug.

  Hospitality indeed. She could almost understand an abandoned cottage that was used by many, but one that came prepared with candles, a neatly laid fire, and a pitcher of fresh water? It seemed almost like someone had prepared for their arrival, but that was impossible. Wasn’t it? What had that note on the coach seat said? Was more going on than she knew? She took the mug and drank deeply, then moved to sit upon the cot. She would think more later. Right now she was tired.

  Barran walked toward the hearth with the candle and moments later the fire began to dance and catch.

  Without thought, she lay down upon the cot, pulling her cloak tight about her. Her corset pinched and she felt dirty and uncomfortable from the two days in the gown. If she’d had the strength she would have done her best to work at the laces again. She shouldn’t be so tired, she’d slept much of the day in the coach and then been carried for a good half of their walk. Even so, it could not have been more than minutes before she felt herself drift off.

  * * *

  Barran gazed down at her as she slept so peacefully on the cot. She looked like a sleeping angel—although a very well-rounded angel. If he’d had his bedroll he would have lain down beside her on the hard floor, but given the chilled temperature of the cabin and the loose grit on the boards beneath his feet, he had little desire to settle below her.

  Her lashes lay so dark upon her cheeks, her face at peace in her slumber. He remembered the anguish he’d seen in her features when he’d walked back to find her sitting—pain and bravery. He didn’t know much about her, but something in that expression had drawn him and drew him still. The thought disquieted him. The last thing he needed was an English lass—although as he thought about lying down beside her his body thought she might be just what he needed. He reached out and traced a single finger down her cheek. She stirred slightly and he pulled back, resisting the urge to touch her more fully.

  He glanced at the hard, angular chairs beside the table. They would offer little comfort to his stiff bones.

  It had clearly not occurred to Robbie that the cabin might have more than one occupant this night, an oversight he would be sure to point out when next they met. While Lady Emma might have been beyond possibility of imagination, surely it was not unusual for the coach to carry multiple guests?

  Well, he had more than a few miles to march tomorrow, and if Emma’s ankle was not yet sound, he’d be carrying part of her weight for much of them. He had a strong suspicion that the woman would not take kindly to suggestions that she wait in the cabin until he could send rescue. No, if he left her behind she’d probably try to walk out on her own—and given how she’d started at every rustling bush or crying bird, he doubted she had any type of experience with the wilds, much less wildlife. A smile formed on his face at her imagined expression should she ever encounter a wild pig—and then a frown replaced it as he considered the likely consequences of such an encounter. The lady might be an annoyance, but he certainly wished her no harm.

  A memory of how soft and light she’d been in his arms, of the fresh flowers of her scent, of the feeling of that unruly hair brushing against his cheek. No, he most certainly wished her no harm, and given the way certain parts of his anatomy were reacting to those thoughts he’d best leave off if he intended . . . Although, they were going to marry.

  He swallowed at the thought, disquieted by it, but far less than he would have expected. What would it be like to have her be his? To be able to bury his face in her hair? To be able to touch her whenever he wished, however he wished?

  His cock rose against his leg. It clearly liked the idea—a lot.

  But that was not for now. There was much to be settled between them and, despite the ache in his groin, all he really wanted was sleep. With a quiet sigh, he settled himself on the cot beside her, trying not to smother her with his weight. It really was the only choice.

  * * *

  Warm. She was warm and snug and . . . Blast, she knew this feeling. She’d experienced it yesterday in the coach. She might want to pretend that the warmth was from a fire in the hearth, but she knew better.

  Opening one eye, she found herself facing a cheek, a very male cheek covered with several days of beard growth. And then the closed eye, the mess of tangled brown curls. Barran sprawled mostly atop her, one arm and one leg pressing her tight to the bedding. Squirming away would be impossible, with the rough wall of the cabin behind her and his mass filling the remainder of the cot, separating her from any hope of escape.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to relax, but with every breath she took, she became more and more aware of him—and not just of his weight, but of everything about him. His scent—had it changed since yesterday? Now all she smelled was musk and man. Perhaps the odor of her own sweat had protected her from his. His warmth—had anything every made her feel so cozy and safe? The light bristle of his beard against her cheek. The ruffle of his breath upon her hair. The . . . She didn’t know the words for all that she felt—for those blasted tingles and for the tenseness in her belly, for the swelling in her breasts, for the desire to push herself closer even as she knew she should pull away, space or not.

  Something changed. Her breathing? His? Her lashes lifted slowly to meet his clear blue stare, eyes that seemed to examine every inch of her face, searching for something, some secret she didn’t know she had. She tried to look away but found herself captured in the wells of blue.

  She didn’t remember his eyes being such a true blue. Granted he kept them covered with that battered hat for much of yesterday, but how could she have missed such a piercing gaze?

  She shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Normally she awoke to the soft sound of her maid withdrawing, the hot water replenished, a cup and a pot of tea on the table beside her bed. It was a far different thing to be met by staring eyes first thing in the morning.

  Assuming it was morning. Daylight seeped through the cracks of the window shutters, but that gave little indication of the actual time.

  “Good mornin’,” his deep voice vibrated against her ear.

  “Morning,” her own hoarse, sleep-laden voice answered. Her mind told her she should insist that he move, demand an answer as to why he was lying on the cot with her at all. That was not the action of a gentleman—not that he’d ever claimed to be a gentleman, although who knew. He’d indicated that he owned this land and he had attended school. He could be just about anybody. Still, it was not proper to lie here with him.

  Her instincts, however, told her to stay where she was, to enjoy the warmth and comfort, the kindness of his gaze. And it was kind in a way she had not noticed yesterday.

  “I should see what refr
eshment is available,” he said but did not move. His lips were but inches from her own.

  Her gaze darted down to them, tarried. They were thin, but firm—and she could feel the breath ease between them.

  Her own lips felt dry in response and she licked them.

  He shifted slightly, those lips moved nearer. In her mind, she could feel them pressed against her own, feel his nibble, his taste, his soft kiss.

  Almost she moved to meet him. Almost she gave in to the call of that instinct, of that desire.

  It would be so easy.

  He moved again, nearer still, if that were even possible given how tightly they were already pressed.

  Suddenly nervous. Suddenly feeling far more than she should. Suddenly all too aware of their closeness, of the intimacy of their position.

  Forcing herself to look back up to his eyes, to break the spell slowly forming between them, she answered, “Do you really think there’ll be anything to eat here?”

  His face drew back until she could see him fully, see the line form between his thick brows. He paused and again, as yesterday, she could feel him thinking, considering.

  “Yes, I rather imagine there will. Bread and bannocks if nothing else. I’ve a thought that my friend, who I mentioned coming here with, has left it well-stocked for me. He knows I am a beast if left hungry for long.”

  “But . . . ?” Why would his friend have left the cabin provisioned? Surely there could have been no way to predict that they’d be stranded in such a fashion, unless . . . ?

  Before she could answer, Barran swung his legs and sat beside her. “I’ll answer all your questions, once we’re fed and once I’ve got the fire going again.” Then he bent down and laid the slightest kiss against her still-parted lips.