Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  That made her smile. Her father had once said her mother had used it trap him—how else to explain the sudden love he’d felt for the Scottish girl. He’d claimed that it promised true love in a single kiss, but she’d never believed him. She’d seen pictures of her mother and was convinced that her fair face and kind smile had done much more to win his love than a dried sprig; still, Emma had kept it all this time.

  If all it took was a sprig of mistletoe to find luck perhaps she should try it on Barran. Love might explain what had just happened far more simply than her first silly thought that it was because she had wrongly believed they might be married.

  Love.

  No, that was silly. Just as she’d said to Barran, they hadn’t known each other long enough for it to be love.

  She ran her finger over the mistletoe. Definitely silly.

  Trying to restore a sense of ease, she paged through the Bible, touching each of the other small mementos contained there: a lock of her own baby hair, the line of a love poem, a half-finished sketch by her mother. Perhaps she should reread the actual story of Christmas, remind herself of the miracle that had happened. Clenching the mistletoe tight in her palm, she tried to concentrate. The feeling of crackling leaves distracted her. Barran had mentioned a Yule log, but perhaps she should hang the dry twig. It was not much of a decoration. She probably would not even mention it to him. She certainly wouldn’t mention love. That wasn’t why she was hanging it. She just wanted decoration for Christmas. Yes, that was the only reason.

  She glanced about the cabin. Of course, hanging would require both string and a hook. Was there nothing she would not take for granted, expecting that it would magically appear as soon as she even had the thought?

  There must be some way. She refused to be defeated on this, too. She was a capable woman, capable of so many things, so many feelings.

  No. She was not going to think about that, think about the ache and need that still filled her.

  She stared about the cabin, trying to focus on something besides those tingles that came upon her every time she let her guard slip.

  There on the mantle was a protruding nail. If she bent the stem just a little surely she could hang it over.

  She limped across the room. Yes. It worked.

  A chuckle emerged from her lips. It was ridiculous how proud she felt. She had managed to hang the mistletoe without maid or footman. It might look sad, hardly the harbinger of a festive holiday, but it was something—something she had done herself. Although there was no way she would mention it to Barran. To do so would invite laughter—and question—and she would not face ridicule on the one thing she had managed this day. And she was certainly not going to face questions that might force her to think too closely on why she hadn’t just placed the small twig back in the Bible.

  Once her small task was completed, she wrapped herself more tightly in her cloak and fetched herself one of the small biscuit things to nibble on—it had been hours since she’d last eaten—before sitting on the bed to read her favorite verses of the small Bible. She might already know them by heart, but it kept her from dwelling on the problems that surrounded her, from dwelling on her swollen breasts, on the ache between her thighs—on her desire to see Barran again, to see the look of desire in his eyes, to see his smile, to feel the warmth of his arms, the safety and warmth that he always brought.

  Chapter Six

  “Here’s your cuppa,” Barran said, placing the steaming mug on the table, and beckoned Emma over. He hadn’t spoken since he’d come in the cottage. The whole time that he’d rebuilt the fire and boiled the water, awkward silence had held. He hadn’t known what to say to her. Now, he stuck with practicalities. “I added a piece of sugar. It will help to warm you until the heat from the fire fills the cabin.

  Emma moved from the cot to the table, looking a bit like a moth’s cocoon as she shuffled in the cloak, trying to hold it tight at both neck and throat. “Thank you.”

  She took the tea and didn’t say anything else. Did she want to ignore what had happened? He watched as she tried to manage holding the cloak and drinking the tea.

  “You know I’ve seen a woman’s body before. I can promise not to react badly if I see a few inches of skin.” He did not comment on how much of her skin he’d seen—and touched—so recently. And the truth was he was finding her as alluring wrapped tight in that cloak as he had when her breast had been bare before him. The heaving wrapping gave an air of mystery, made him think of a package waiting to be unwrapped—and it was the Christmas season.

  Emma lifted the tea and took a small sip, her eyes narrowed.

  Had she found something insulting in his words? You never could tell with women. “It’s started to snow again, quite heavily,” he said. “All we can do is hope that it is warm enough to begin melting on the morn.” Or that Robbie would send somebody to rescue them. Once the wedding was sanctified surely Robbie would relent.

  “Perhaps my uncle will send somebody looking for me when the coach does not arrive? Surely people will notice that the coach is missing.”

  “With the snow, they may or may not. It may be assumed that the driver decided to pause at one of the earlier inns and wait out the weather. At least we have provisions.”

  Emma lifted her face away from the mug and stared at him, thoughts whirling behind her dark eyes. “I’ve been wondering about that. You mentioned that your friend had left things for us, but not why. Were you planning to head here? It seems strange to leave a cabin so well supplied. I could perhaps understand leaving a few basic supplies, but several bottles of whiskey? That seems a trifle odd.”

  “You are in Scotland.”

  A furrow appeared between her delicate brows. No other words came to her lips, but her eyes stayed on him, waiting for an answer. Even when she lifted the mug to her lush lips, her gaze did not flicker.

  There was temptation to lie. It was not an easy thing to admit to having been such an easy target—and he wasn’t sure that he wished her to know that he was the root of their troubles, but he’d never been a liar and would not start now. “I believe my friend may be behind the sudden decision of the coachman to drive off with the team—and not the coach.”

  Her eyes grew even wider. “Really? The note?”

  “Yes.” He waited for her to say more.

  Her lips remained closed and it was impossible to read the thoughts behind those piercing eyes.

  “I was trying to stop my sister’s wedding.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but clearly he needed to say something, to find some way to make her understand.

  “Explain.” There was no escaping the lady in that command.

  He should have found it irritating, but in truth it made him want to lean forward and silence her with a kiss. “Would you like some whiskey in your tea?” He lifted one of the bottles. “To help warm you.”

  “Why do I think that is not the reason behind your offer?”

  He let out a long sigh and picked up the tin mug, pouring himself a good measure of drink. He did take the precaution of setting the bread and cheese on the table. Whiskey was not wise on an empty stomach and his had nothing more than a slosh of tea within it. “I admit I feel the need of a bit of warmth myself if I am to share this tale. I cannot decide if I be hero or villain, or simply the fool. I know my intentions were the best, but . . .”

  Her brows drew even further together. At least she looked more confused than angered. Perhaps if he spoke quickly he could keep her that way.

  He walked to the hearth and added a few more logs and then moved back to the table, sitting, his legs spread wide. He lifted the cup and swirled the whiskey about his mouth, enjoying the burn. He pulled his knife from his belt and set it on the table beside the bread and cheese. “Catriona, my sister, is only a few years younger than I—born just before my mother left, but I’ve always felt fiercely protective of her.”

  “As her brother, you should.” Emma picked up the bottle and poured a small measure into her tea.r />
  “I am glad that you feel that way. I’d run around wild with Robbie MacGregor for years. I don’t ever remember a time when he wasn’t in my life. Sometimes I felt that he was my twin. We knew each other’s thoughts and got into more trouble than a pack of puppies. When I was sent to school it was hard, but as soon as I returned, it was as if I had never left. And when I joined the army, he joined the day after. I am not sure that I would have survived the war in France if not for him. Even in the worst of battle, I knew I could depend on him.”

  “I thought you said you were trying to stop the wedding? He sounds perfect. Why would you be trying to prevent such a union?”

  Barran took another swig, feeling the burn deep in his belly. He’d best get started on the bread soon. “I have seen him in situations that I would not wish to share with my sister. I think he is too much like me,” he mumbled into the mug.

  That got her attention. “And you don’t think you would be a good husband?”

  “Certainly not for my sister.”

  “I think that goes without saying, but I sense that you are avoiding the point. Will you be a good husband?”

  Shit. He should have realized where such a conversation would lead. And the truth was he no longer knew the answer to that question. A week ago, he would have said that he’d be a lousy husband, that he had no intention of settling down for longer than it took to produce a son. No, he’d never abuse a wife, but he’d never particularly considered being faithful either. Now—for no reason he could put words to—he was thinking differently, imaging himself with Emma, imagining that he had no wish to stray. “I will certainly do my best.”

  Her gaze moved over him and he could feel her evaluating in which direction to take the conversation. “And do you think that this Robbie is different? That he will not try to do his best? Does he love your sister?”

  And wasn’t that the crux of the matter. “I don’t know. She said he did. He said he did, but how do I know he is telling the truth? I know he’s always cared for her. He watched out for her more than I did when we were younger. And she always had a special glint in her eye when he was about, even when she was just a wee lass. Perhaps that is part of the problem. How do I know that it is not just a childish affection between them?”

  She straightened in her chair. “But you say he said he loved her. Is a man who says such things without cause? I believe that you imply that you have seen him in intimate situations with other women. Forgive me if I am wrong. Has he told them he loves them? Is he a man to lie?”

  God, he let his mind wander all the situations he’d been in with Robbie, all the women, all the whiskey, all the trouble. “No, I’ve never known him to lie except as a bit of fun.”

  “Then perhaps he does love her?” She took another sip of the tea, wrinkling her nose at the whiskey.

  He’d not actually considered that. Could Robbie love Catriona? “Still, she is my sister, how can I risk her happiness?” He took a large gulp.

  “Can we ever be sure of another’s happiness? Hell, can we even be sure of our own?”

  He started. Had she just used the word “hell?” How much whiskey had she poured in that tea?

  A small smile quirked her lips. “Have you never heard a lady use a curse word? I am stranded in the middle of nowhere because you couldn’t keep your nose out of your sister’s affairs. A storm is raging outside. I have been forced out of the only home I have ever known. My father is dead. I doubt my uncle, Mounthaven, even remembers I am coming. The cousin who inherited from my father is clearly sending me into the wilds so that I will never marry and inherit my portion—only now I may have to marry you, a man I know nothing about beyond your name. And I am forced to sit about in my shift because my dress is in tatters.”

  At least she hadn’t added in their brief but passionate moment. He looked down into his mug, thinking more deeply on her words, feeling her loss. Their situations were so different and yet he understood the pain in her voice—and in her eyes. He had a momentary desire to pull her into his arms, to comfort her distress, to assure her that all would be well, but there were still too many things to be decided between them. “Your dress is hardly in tatters. I am sure we can find something to lace it up again.”

  “And a hook to help thread the eyelets?” She downed the rest of the liquid in her cup and then added another measure of whiskey.

  “I am sure we will manage. And what do you mean you’re being sent into the wilds—although I perhaps object to the term when talking about my homelands—to prevent your getting married?”

  Emma took a large swallow from her cup. “I don’t know if it’s true that he’s trying to keep me from marriage, but I am sure that dear Cousin Henry would very much like to hold on to my inheritance as long as possible, if not forever. Why else he would send me to Scotland within days of formally taking the title and estates? Given a little more time I could have found a husband in London. I was not without suitors.”

  “I am sure you were not. Is your inheritance so great then that your cousin would act in such a manner?”

  She took a great gulp of whiskey and poured more into her mug. “And wouldn’t you like to know.” She batted her lashes at him with great exaggeration.

  Was she still thinking about another husband? If nothing else he thought they’d moved on from that. It was very close to the time when they must truly talk, decide—not that he thought there were really any decisions remaining. He leaned across the table and sliced off a great hunk of cheese and placed it on a bannock, holding it out to her.

  “Do you think I am getting sloshed, sir? And must be fed? I did eat some while you were out.”

  “Of course not. It is merely my duty as your host to provide you with a suitable repast.” He cut his own piece of cheese. “Although I do admit that we should settle things between us before we settle into our cups.” Although truth be told, he was enjoying the feisty personality that was emerging along with the whiskey.

  “And if I’d rather settle them while in my cups? I’ve not had much luck sober recently—and I’ve never truly over-imbibed before.”

  “Have you not?”

  “Most certainly not, although I imagine you have.” She took a nibble of the cheese.

  “I would not deny that. And I have learned that it is always better to resolve things before much drink is involved. A little can make things easier—too much and one’s choices become called into question.” He placed his hand over hers, warming her chilled fingers. She was such a confusing woman, almost as confusing as his own feelings. He’d suggested marriage because he felt there was no choice, but now it didn’t seem like such a bad idea at all. He could almost imagine spending many days sitting by the fire drinking whiskey and sharing past histories.

  Emma pulled in a deep breath, drawing him from his thoughts, and her cloak slipped from one shoulder, revealing soft, pale flesh. “And what must we resolve?”

  He took his own gulp of whiskey. It was time. “We have both mentioned marriage, acted as if we understood the necessity of it, but I think we are both afraid to admit that it is not a joke, not a jest we are laughing about.”

  Her eyes dropped, but her hand did not pull from his. “I do not wish to think it is real. Can we not wait and see what the situation is when we are found? I spoke the truth when I said that my uncle is probably not missing me. Can you not just slip me onto another mail coach when we are rescued?”

  He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that such a thing was truly possible. He was surprised that the thought brought him less joy than he had expected. “I don’t know and I am not sure it is a chance that we should take.” And more than that he wasn’t sure it was a chance he wanted to take. He’d never sought out a wife, but he was beginning to think that Lady Emma might just fit the role very well.

  * * *

  Barran looked so peaceful when he closed his eyes, despite the furrow of concern that still marked his brow. Emma took a tiny sip of the whiskey, still not ready to f
ocus on Barran’s statement. It had taken her a few tastes of the whiskey to notice anything but the medicinal burn, but now she was becoming quite fond of the stuff. She nibbled at the cheese.

  Opening his eyes then, Barran stared straight at her. “It must be your choice in the end. I can only offer my services to you. I will not make any attempt to force you. If what you wish is to tempt fate, then that we will do.”

  She pushed back from the table and stood with only the slightest pain and wobble from her bad ankle as she walked to the door and opened it, staring out into the cold. The snow was coming down heavily and all about was a blanket of white. Simply seeing across the small clearing was difficult, walking out into the storm would be almost impossible.

  And yet, it was magical. It made the real world seem far from this warm cabin.

  And yet it was real—and so was the decision she must make.

  A cold breeze swept by her, clearing her head and forcing her to turn away and shut the door before the cabin once again grew frigid. “It’s starting to look like Christmas.” At least the way Christmas is supposed to look. It wasn’t often that there was actually much snow on Christmas, and in London if there was it was most often black with dust before morning.