Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  “What?” That was not what he had been expecting—and his body was letting him know that it definitely had other thoughts on what they should do at this moment.

  “I will feel much better when it is untangled. I feel a bit like I’m walking about with a bush atop my head.”

  “A very pretty bush.” He tried to match her light smile. If this was what she wanted, he would give it to her.

  Her eyes dropped from his. “Well, pull a chair over to the fire and then I will sit on the floor in front of you and you can work on my knots. I warn you it may be a long task. You’d best add more wood to the fire and bring the whiskey as well. I may need it to deaden the pain if you pull.” Her voice shook slightly. She was nervous about what was coming.

  “I would never do such a thing. I will be gentle as a kitten,” he said, trying to reassure her.

  “I do hope so—although I do not think I’d trust a kitten to pull out my tangles?” Her voice quavered slightly as she spoke.

  Yes, she definitely was nervous, nervous and seeking a bit more time. She wanted what he did and yet she had just told him she was innocent. Knowingly or unknowingly, she had just found a way for him to touch her, to get her used to his touch, in a most unthreatening manner.

  With graceful speed, he moved the chair and set it in front of the fire. He quickly added more wood, stoking it high. He grabbed the whiskey and some wrapped ginger biscuits from the shelf. They’d finished a surprising amount of the bread and cheese considering that all they’d done was nibble. It would be wine, bannocks, and sausage for dinner.

  He set bottle, mug, and biscuits on the hearth, grabbed his comb, and then sat, facing the fire, legs spread for her to sit between. She looked at the space between his thighs for a moment and then fetched the blanket, spreading it on the floor before settling herself before him, back to him. Her cloak dropped, baring her shoulders of all but the thin straps of her chemise. He’d seen women attend dances with less clothing, but there was something achingly vulnerable about the delicate neck and bare shoulders. Curling his fingers into a fist, he resisted the urge to touch and stroke. Instead, he set the comb upon his thigh and carefully began to remove the pins from her hair. They resisted more than he had expected. The nights of sleep had clearly left them tangled, almost knitted into her dark curls. With more patience than he’d known he had, he slipped them out one by one and bent to lay them on the stones beside the whiskey. When he’d loosed the last one he began to release her braid as best he could. She tensed beneath his fingers, clearly expecting pull and yank.

  He let his fingers drift lower for a moment to the base of her neck. He trailed them across the velvet skin and then began to gently massage, pressing and kneading. Her muscles tightened further for the briefest second and then relaxed, her head drifting forward. He rubbed gently for another moment, letting himself revel in the feel of her beneath his fingertips, and then leaned forward to pour more whiskey into her cup. He handed it to her along with a biscuit. “Just in case I am careless.”

  Could one feel a smile one could not see? He rather thought that he could as her shoulders lifted once and then settled down. He leaned back and set to easing the strands of her hair apart, ignoring the ache in his lower body that had grown in a very literal sense while he caressed her skin. It was good that she was facing away from him. He was not yet ready to upset her modesty again—that could wait another moment or two.

  He smiled and devoted himself to her hair. It really was a mess. The tangles moved beneath his fingers almost like living things, but piece by piece, strand by strand, he brought them under control and tamed them. It took time, perhaps not the hours she had mentioned, but more than enough time for further soft words and secrets, for him to learn the pain of her father’s death and how lonely she had felt leaving the only home she had ever known. Her back slowly unbent and she leaned against him, the heat of her skin warm even through the fabric of his trousers. He tried hard not to think about what it would feel like to be skin to skin.

  Her head fell back and he could see the curve of her forehead, the bridge of her nose. It was not as easy to work in this position, but he left her, enjoying the feel of her weight against him. Separating dark strands from golden ones, he finally let himself relax, enjoying the light scent of lilacs that rose as he separated strand from strand. When the braid was completely undone, he took out the comb and began to work each tangle out. Emma’s hair was far different from Catriona’s riotous curls or his horse’s coarse mane. Each soft chocolate lock made him want to lean forward and bury his face, to inhale the scent that was all her, to . . .

  She moaned softly, letting her head fall back against him. “That feels so good, almost heavenly. I was afraid it would hurt and instead it is one of the best things that I can remember. It never feels like this when my maid does it.”

  “Perhaps she does not care as much as I do.” Again, more than he had meant to say. He still wasn’t sure of his own feelings, wasn’t quite comfortable with admitting to more than desire, but it was more, much more. He started on another strand, working from the bottom to the top until he could pull the comb from root to tip freely.

  “Or perhaps her fingers are simply not as talented.”

  His whole body stiffened, and he did mean his whole body. He shifted slightly, his cock hard against his leg. She could not have meant that—could she? No. She couldn’t. He concentrated hard on the piece of hair. “Perhaps.”

  “I thought this would be a horrible day and instead it is turning out quite lovely.” Her voice was soft, almost drowsy, but with an added huskiness. “I’ve had my tea. I am warm and safe. The snow is beautiful and it’s Christmas Eve.”

  His cock moved against his leg at that added tone, but he fought to keep his voice calm. “I keep forgetting that. I meant to bring you some greens as decoration, perhaps a bit of pine or holly. It’s been several years since I had much of a celebration at Christmas. I was hoping to this year with my sister, but . . .”

  She tilted her face up to his, her eyes as dark as he had ever seen them. “I will miss evening service. It is always my favorite of the year, so still and solemn and yet filled with joy.”

  “I will have to work hard to fill you with joy here.”

  Her cheeks grew dark red. God, he loved that blush. She had clearly understood the second meaning of his words. She sat up, her heat leaving him. “Perhaps we should take a walk. It is beautiful outside and it grows dark so early this time of year.”

  “Is that truly what you want?” It certainly was not what he wanted, and that was not even thinking about how his leg would react to the cold. And thinking of that . . . “What about your ankle? Do you think it would be wise to risk it so? What if you fell?”

  She turned more fully toward him, the cloak slipping further down her shoulders until he could see the rise of one firm breast, making his mouth water. She glanced down, noticing, but did not correct the situation. “It would be unwise. And I am sure it is evident that I am merely trying to delay matters, to distract.”

  God, it was time to act the gentleman. “You have not agreed to anything. Well, you have—do not think I am going to forget you have agreed to be my wife. But the rest . . . We have not even spoken the words, much less agreed. There is nothing that must happen today. In truth, we barely know each other.”

  Her eyes lifted to his, held them. “I know what you are saying is true, and yet I feel that if we are to do this it must be today.”

  “Why? Perhaps you would be happier once we are truly wed.”

  “I thought you said . . .”

  “Laws and rules are complicated. Even here in Scotland, a man is not wed to every woman he spends the night with or there would be bigamists all about.” What was he about, trying to dissuade her?

  Her head dropped—and then rose again. “But you do intend to wed me, in a church, perhaps with my uncle present?”

  A wry smile. “I’ve a feeling that whatever his familiar feeling for you, Moun
thaven will be sure to be present. He will see this as an unexpected payment on his investment.”

  “Investment?”

  He debated a moment. “This is not the time for that. I will explain all, I promise, but first, let us resolve the other.”

  She rose to her feet in a single fluid motion. The cloak slipped further. She stood proud and tall. “Do you want me as you said you did?” she asked.

  He blinked. And blinked again. She was glorious. “Of course.”

  “But do you want me—and not just any woman who happens to be here? I would assume that you would be among those many bigamists if that were actually the law.”

  He swallowed and tried to fill his answer with truth. “Yes. A thousand times yes—about wanting you, not about being a bigamist. Although I admit that if you were to ask me why I want you so much, so individually, I could not answer. It is not simply that you are comely, that you are all I could want in a woman, full and lush and beautiful. No, it is more than that. I have, to be honest, perhaps been in other situations that involved some appearance of compromise and yet never did I feel the urge to do the honorable thing—not, mind you, that I would not have done it if called for—but with you, it is different. I want to be wed, to cut off even the slightest hint of impropriety. I don’t fully know why. It is something I have never experienced before, but there is no denying it is how I feel.” He let his gaze roam over her again, let heat fill him, let his desire show. “And yes, I want you. God in Heaven. I want you.” He let his eyes sweep her even more freely, lingering at that swell of breast before moving back to her face. “The bigger question is do you want me, want this?”

  Emma trembled slightly. If it was possible her eyes grew even bigger. He could see the pulse in her neck, almost believe he heard the beat of her heart. She stepped forward, her hands crossed before her, holding the cloak tight.

  And then she let it go.

  Let it go.

  The thought echoed through his mind even as his eyes fastened on the feast before him.

  She was beautiful. He’d known that—he’d seen her clad only in her chemise just this morning—and yet he wasn’t sure he had ever before known the meaning of the word.

  The thin linen of her chemise hid little from him. He swallowed, hard.

  Her breasts seemed even fuller than he’d remembered, fuller and higher, the tips a deep rose peering through the thin fabric.

  The chemise didn’t cling to her, but neither did it fall free, indenting at her narrow waist and then flowing over sloping hips. The firelight highlighted every curve and nuance. She stepped forward, the shadow between her legs teasing him.

  * * *

  What was she doing? The thought echoed through Emma’s brain again and again, but she was powerless to stop, held in the thrall of something she did not fully understand. It was unthinkable. She was losing her wits. No lady would ever act in such a fashion.

  And yet, it was exactly right.

  No moment in her life had ever felt so right, so perfect.

  She took another step, the cold of the floorboards seeping through her stockings.

  Stockings. She was wearing dirty stockings. The thought hit her as absurd. Perhaps it was her nerves.

  A small giggle left her lips.

  Barran looked at her question.

  “I am wearing dirty stockings.”

  He looked even more confused.

  “I am about to lie with a man for the first time and I am wearing stockings.”

  “And?”

  “I guess it’s just not how I pictured it. The rest of it is—or most of it is, in kind of a strange way, but I never thought about stockings, never thought about feet at all in these circumstances.” She kicked the cloak away and held out one foot, wobbling at the slight pain in her ankle.

  “They are very nice feet,” he said, his eyes roaming from her foot up her stocking-clad calves to stop at the beginning of her chemise, just below her knees.

  “How would you know? You have not seen them.”

  He lowered his gaze back to her feet, a devilish spark in his eyes. “Well, they look nice in your stockings, small and well-shaped. If you will take your turn sitting in the chair, perhaps I can help you with your stockings and examine your feet more closely. If you did not imagine stockings, then we had best be sure that you are not wearing them.”

  She wasn’t sure that was quite what she had meant, but the idea was not unappealing. With only the slightest tinge of trepidation, she moved to the chair and sat, leaving the cloak lying atop the blanket on the floor before the fire.

  Barran walked toward her and bent to his knees before her, looking rather like a man about to propose.

  She giggled again, her hands rising to cover her mouth.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “You look like you are about to ask for my hand in marriage.”

  His lips curled up in a smile. He lifted one of her feet and ran his hands up her leg, stopping at her lower thigh to loosen the garter that held her stockings. Warmth surged through her at her touch. “Would you like me to?”

  “What?” She blinked, distracted by the feeling of his fingers pressing against the soft skin of her leg.

  “Would you like me to more formally propose marriage?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “It doesn’t feel silly to me at all. Would you, Lady Emma Spencer, take me, James Barran, to be your husband? Will you marry me?”

  Something in his words stilled her. He meant it. Of course he meant it. They’d already discussed how they must marry. She had already agreed, but somehow this felt different, more personal, more intimate. “It’s more like you are asking for my foot in marriage rather than my hand.” She meant the words as a joke, as a way of lightening a moment she was not sure how to handle, but instead, Barran lifted her foot and lay a kiss upon it.

  “I am asking for all of you in marriage, my love.”

  My love. It was a common enough endearment. Nobody really meant anything when they said it. My love. Why did the words feel so serious? They could not be. The two of them had known each other barely more than a day. All she could do was stare down at him and wonder. What would it be like to be loved by Barran? And why did she grow warm at the thought? Did she want him to love her? She’d always imagined that her husband would love her, but this was much more than that, this was about Barran and his feelings for her—and hers for him. Could she love him? It should be preposterous after just one day, but somehow it was not. As she gazed down upon him, she was definitely feeling something—something she was still afraid to define.

  Chapter Eight

  My love. Perhaps he should not have said the words. He certainly didn’t mean them, did he? Barran swallowed at the very thought. Love. It was not a concept he’d spent much time thinking about. He’d never been a man to worry about what it meant or if he’d ever find it. In fact, while he’d rather assumed he’d love his children as he had his father, as he loved Catriona, he’d never even considered the matter when it came to choosing a wife. He’d always assumed he’d choose someone that he liked, someone that he found attractive. He might not be an aristocrat, a true gentleman, but he’d always planned on a son to take over the family lands. That had been why he’d planned on taking a wife. Love had never entered the calculation. So why was he now using the word? It was not a word he could remember using before. He’d never been a man to throw about endearments in a casual manner.

  He stroked a finger up Emma’s instep, watched the delicate shudder that ran through her. Now that was something he could love, a responsive woman. Was there anything better? He rather imagined he could have her moaning his name in a matter of minutes. Yes, now, that was something a man could love. And far safer to think about than any other reason he might have said the blasted word. “So, Emma,” he said. “Will you marry me?” He stroked her foot again.

  Her eyes stayed serious, despite the parting of her lips. “Yes, James, I will marry you.”

>   There was something in the way she said his Christian name that caught him. It had been years since anybody said it in those soft terms. His nurse? Certainly not his mother. He stroked the high instep again, trying to ignore that the very use of his name was more intimate than any endearment ever could have been.

  Her eyes stayed on his, and after a moment it became too much. He was a simple man and did not like his mind veering in unknown directions. He placed a hand on her other foot, stripped off the stocking, and pressed deeply into both insteps.

  A louder moan, one that had his cock at full attention.

  And another.

  Women always did like that hard push right on the arch.

  He circled his thumbs, moving to the back of the heels, squeezing tendons between thumb and forefinger. Her eyes grew wide with the pleasure. Perfect. He rotated her sore ankle, being sure that all was as it should be. His hands moved up her firm calves, massaging muscles tight from yesterday’s walk. She was breathing faster now, her whole body moving with each inhale.

  The backs of her knees. Ah. She had not known just how sensitive a place that could be. He could see her surprise in her expression. He stroked his fingers back and forth, watching every quiver of her body.

  He slipped his hands slightly higher, pushing the hem of her chemise up. Her gaze moved from his face to his hands and back. She was nervous, but curious, wanting more, but unsure how to ask.

  And, he admitted to himself, he was also unsure, used to women who knew exactly what they wanted and how to ask for it. He would have to tread with great care if he was not to scare her and was to give her the pleasure he so desired. It was important that this experience be perfect. He wanted a wife who cherished the bedchamber, not fled from it.

  He pushed her chemise up a few more inches; her thighs were plump and white, edible. He longed to bury his face between them, to feast on her very essence, to taste all that she was. His mouth began to water—but he doubted she’d even heard of such things, much less was ready for them.