Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  He shook his head. “It’s really a very simple tale. I don’t know why I didn’t tell it earlier. I’ve told you that my mother returned to London when I was a child and that it was her family that had the money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, in the way of these things, much of it was supposed to have transferred to my father upon their marriage, but somehow there was delay after delay and once she left there were even more delays. I am sure my father could have brought her to court, but that was not the type of man that he was. Instead, as long as enough funds were available to keep the estate running, he let her be. All was fine until he died and she refused to release the monies for the death duties and taxes. I think she thought that by not paying she would force me back to England. At that point, I did hire a solicitor, but it would have been too late by the time I received the funds from her family. The crown is never patient when money is involved.

  “It was Mounthaven who saved me. He offered to loan me the monies I needed until such time as I received the inheritance I was due. It hurt my pride to take his funds, but not as greatly as losing my home would have, losing Catriona’s home. I am still not sure why he was so generous—although I know he’d never been fond of my mother’s family, but still, I owe him all that I have and more.”

  She drew back. “And so you are willing to marry me.” Her voice sounded flat.

  An icicle formed it the pit of his stomach. He needed her to understand. “Come, Emma, have we not moved beyond that? Can you not accept what you believed of me a few moments ago? I will wed you because I wish to and for no other reason.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “For no other reason?”

  He granted her the consideration of thinking hard, hoping to find the right words. “I have already admitted that such factors may have started my thoughts of marriage, but I swear upon your mistletoe that I would not marry you if I did not truly believe we would suit.”

  * * *

  He swore upon her mistletoe. Even as her soul wondered if she could trust him, she felt a smile rise again to her lips. How could she resist a man who understood her so well? She had no doubt that he’d have sworn upon her Bible if she brought it out, but in some way swearing upon the mistletoe was even better.

  She could not say she had no doubts, but if she’d known him and his family for twenty years she might have had just as many worries. In so many ways, ways she could not explain even to herself, she already felt she knew him better than she’d known any other man—and she was not speaking in a physical sense. She might not truly know about his home—or even fully his station in life—but she trusted him, knew that he would care for her to the best of his abilities, and knew that he would never abandon her or break her trust.

  She let the silence remain between them for a moment and then leaned forward, letting the blanket fall again. “If you’re going to swear upon the mistletoe then I do believe a kiss is required.”

  His eyes swept over her, the heat of his gaze burning. When his eyes returned to her face, she stopped breathing. His gaze dropped to her lips and stalled. She found her own eyes moving to focus on his lips. He moved slowly toward her and she to him. His eyes lifted again to hers. They met and held, searching for more than eyes could see. Another inch. Another.

  Lips met. First soft and tentative, then harder, more demanding.

  His hands lifted to her breasts, squeezed and fondled. She squirmed, feeling herself growing lost in the passion and heat.

  She pulled her head back to stare at him once more.

  His lips were red, swollen. His eyes so dark a blue they looked black.

  Her husband. She might still not be sure if they were wed or not by custom, but it did not matter.

  He was hers—and she his.

  She glanced back up at the dried twig and felt herself believe—in magic, in Christmas, in true love.

  Epilogue

  Two Weeks Later

  “I thought you said you didn’t live in a castle,” Emma said, glancing across at her husband of three days, trying to keep her voice happy. She’d been sitting aback this damned horse for far too long, traveling from the wedding at her uncle’s manor, and now to be confronted with this . . .

  She turned her face back to the craggy ruin standing on the opposite hilltop. The scenery was lovely, lush green, dotted with grazing sheep, even a few fenced fields with farmers laboring away. But then there was—she supposed if she were painting she’d have found it picturesque, but she wasn’t painting, or drawing, or . . .

  No, there was no way to describe it except as a ruin. Tall and dark, it stood stark against the skyline, a good portion of its roof intact, but that was about all you could say about it. “It looks—looks charming,” she faltered.

  And Barran began to laugh, hard, loud, belly-aching laughs.

  She turned back to him, her tone slightly sharp. “And you find it funny that with no warning you expect me to live—to live—to live in that.” She knew she was stuttering and impolite, but really, what did the man expect? She was doing her best not to complain and he had the nerve to laugh.

  Yes, she’d married him without knowing his exact circumstances, married him knowing far too little about him besides that her uncle seemed more than pleased with the match—but she was becoming increasingly sure that she just might love him and that he just might love her. Still, he should have warned her. Yes, he really should have warned her!

  “Ah Emma, my sweet Emma, my love,” Barran began, trying to contain the mirth that still filled him. “You are looking in the wrong place. Nobody but the sheep and the occasional traveler has lived there since my grandfather’s generation. Look down, into the valley.” He pointed.

  Her eyes followed his direction—and her mouth fell open.

  A manor house. A perfect manor house surrounded by gardens. It was not large compared to the one she’d grown up in and it might even be considered small next to her uncle’s, but it was beautiful, warm brick with high stone chimneys, a house that cried out for a family.

  Barran continued, “I can promise you that my mother would never have married my father if it had meant living in those ruins. My father added on to the house’s existing structure to try to make her happy—and the gardens were added too. He wanted to try to make her feel like she was at home. I do believe we have the best rose garden in all of Scotland.”

  “But it wasn’t enough to make her happy.” Emma felt a tinge of sadness.

  “No, it was not.” Barran sounded firm. He drew his horse closer to hers and reached out to take her hand. “A wreck of a home may hinder a marriage, but I’ve never seen a lovely one guarantee a happy marriage. No, I think a happy marriage needs something else.”

  “And what is that?” Emma felt her voice shake as she asked.

  “It needs love.”

  Her mouth grew dry. “And do you think we will have a happy marriage?”

  “How could we not?” Barran spoke very firmly.

  Did he mean? Was he actually ready to say the words? “And why is that?”

  “Because I cannot imagine a marriage with more love than I think ours will have. I’ve loved you since the second day I knew you and my feelings have intensified a hundredfold each day. Do you not feel the same?”

  “I do.” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

  One of the most beautiful smiles she’d ever seen lit his face. “Then, my dear bride, I suggest we hurry down the hill. I’d rather like the chance to show you exactly how I feel about that answer and a field does not seem quite the proper place for such a demonstration.” He turned his horse and took off down the slope.

  Emma could only wonder if her smile was as big as his. She turned to follow, urging her horse to canter. It was going to be a race to see if she could get there first.

  Also by Lavinia Kent

  Bound and Determined Series

  Mastering the Marquess

  Bound by Bliss

  Revealing Ruby (novella)

&n
bsp; Sarah’s Surrender

  Ravishing Ruby

  Angel in Scarlet

  A Very Ruby Christmas (novella)

  Tangled in Sin

  For a complete list of Lavinia’s titles, please visit www.laviniakent.com

  About the Author

  Author photograph © Barbara Woodard

  Lavinia Kent, author of hot Regency romances, never knew that most people don’t spend their free time dreaming up stories. She still has a hard time understanding how those who don’t have other worlds to escape into can survive the doctor’s waiting room or a line at the grocery store. Her sizzling romances feature strong heroines, ladies who are anything but proper. A mother of three, Lavinia lives in Washington, DC with an ever-changing menagerie.

  You can sign up for email updates here.

  SWEET HOME HIGHLANDS

  May McGoldrick

  Chapter One

  Sutherland, the Scottish Highlands

  December 11, 1817

  Captain Gregory Pennington put down the knife and fork and glanced around at the crowded coffee room. Where were these blasted people he was to escort to Baronsford?

  With only a fortnight till Christmas, he had every right to be impatient. The ice and wind had made the trip down the coast road to Helmsdale difficult, and the rest of the journey south to the Borders didn’t promise to be any better. They’d need most of those days to reach the family estate, and he was anxious to get there.

  The room buzzed with voices and activity. Thick clouds of tobacco hung beneath the blackened rafters, and the warm damp smell of wet wool and salty sea air filled his senses. Travelers from a northbound coach were huddled by the roaring fire, stamping their feet and warming themselves, and every table was filled. It appeared that everyone on the east coast of Scotland was trying to get home.

  Home. Penn thought about the changes at Baronsford. Of anywhere in the world, the old castle was always home. He and his brother and three sisters had spent every summer there on the River Tweed—running through the forests, riding and swimming and sunning themselves on the rock in the lake. It had been a splendid place to grow up.

  Change was an inevitable factor of life. He knew that, and Baronsford had undergone change, to be sure. After the deaths of his brother Hugh’s first wife and son, an eight-year chill had descended over the place.

  But, as winter eventually turns to spring, life had finally returned to Baronsford. His brother and his new wife were making it a home again. Penn had seen it when he attended their wedding this past June. It was a happy change. The house once again glowed with warmth and sunshine. And now Grace was with child. Another generation of Penningtons was about to begin.

  Penn’s thoughts lingered on his family. Every Christmas, they all went home to the Borders. Regardless of the clergy’s position on Yule celebrations, Baronsford hosted one of its two annual balls the day after Christmas. So many members of the realm’s leading families braved northern England’s and Scotland’s often fierce winter weather to attend the event. And every year, along with the festivities, Penn faced the inevitable teasing from his mother and sisters about marriage.

  He still held the opinion that he’d never marry until he put down solid roots in a place of his own. As the second son of an earl, he’d thrown himself into forging a life. A builder by nature, a commission with the Royal Engineers had provided him with a career he needed. Until now.

  Lately, he’d grown discontented with military life, with the lack of permanence—both in location and in relationships. He was increasingly conscious of how tired he was of being unable to plan his own life with the same precision that he built roads or bridges. And with the wars with France finally over, the government was focusing on its colonies abroad. There was a great deal to do in India and Canada and Australia, but he wanted no part in that. Not any longer.

  Penn had already given his notice to the corps of his plan to relinquish his commission. He needed a new adventure. A new life. He was ready to look for a place to settle down and build a home and perhaps practice the profession that he still loved. Then, he’d entertain the idea of marriage.

  The destination he had in mind would be certain to cause a stir with his family. Boston in America. A growing city that was, by all accounts, bursting at the seams. Though he’d never been there himself, the Penningtons were no strangers to the place. His uncle and wife and his cousins lived there, so Penn had connections. Still, it was far away.

  He planned on announcing the news of the move to the family this Christmas.

  Penn looked around the coffee room. So where were these people? If he’d ridden south as he planned, he’d be halfway to Baronsford by now. But his brother’s letter—along with a carriage—had reached him the day before he was to leave. It was a curious note. As lord justice, Hugh was painstakingly explicit, but the message had been uncharacteristically cryptic. Penn was to connect up with four adults and a child in Helmsdale. They were traveling from an estate in Sutherland to the Borders to meet with Lady Dacre, a neighbor of his parents in Hertfordshire.

  A door opened and a gust of wind carried a coachman inside.

  “Ceathrú uaire! Fifteen minutes afore departure north!” the man shouted, clapping his wool-clad hands and glaring about him. “Be in yer places or be left!”

  A barmaid pushed by Penn, carrying food to a young couple sitting with their hands entwined at a table in the corner. Newlyweds, he thought, wondering where home was for them.

  Penn’s eyes roamed from table to table, searching for the people he was to convey to Baronsford. A few travelers were moving toward the door, wrapping their mufflers and coats around them in preparation for the next stage of their journey.

  The sensation of being watched drew Penn’s gaze around the room again until he saw, standing right at his elbow, a child bundled in a mulberry-colored greatcoat. Inside the fur-trimmed hood, brown curls framed a small, rosy-cheeked face. Little as she was, the girl lit the gray room with color. Alert, slanted brown eyes, dark as night, stared intently at him. She didn’t wait for him to speak.

  “How old are you?” the cherub asked gravely.

  Penn looked around for the child’s family. There was little chance of a lass getting lost in a place like this, but he was relieved to see a wafer-thin woman keeping an eye on his visitor from a nearby table.

  “Thirty.” Penn pushed his plate away. “And you?”

  “Do you have children?” she continued, ignoring his question.

  The woman watching them began to rise just as the barmaid delivered plates of food to their table.

  “None,” he replied. “That I know of.”

  An eyebrow cocked slightly. “Any wife . . . that you know of?”

  Penn wondered if he’d been mistaken thinking this tiny female was a child. Though she appeared to be no more than five or six, she seemed to understand more than she should for her age.

  “No wives,” he told her. “That I’m sure of.”

  “Are you a pauper, then?”

  “A pauper?” Penn repeated, trying not to smile. Echoes of similar conversations he’d had with his sisters rang in his ears.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “No, I’m not a pauper.”

  “Then why haven’t you married? You’re old enough. You wear a uniform. You’re not a pauper.”

  “Has my father sent you?” he asked. “Or was it my mother?”

  She stepped a little closer and curled her finger at him. Penn leaned down as she lowered her voice and asked in a confidential tone, “You’re not a papist, are you?”

  Penn shook his head, afraid he’d laugh if he tried to reply and sensing that his interrogator might have been offended at such a response.

  “Giùlain thu fhèin, Ella. Behave yourself,” the woman said, coming up to the table. “I’m sorry that she’s bothering you, Captain. This wee miss can be a bit troublesome, I fear.”

  “Not at all,” he replied.

  “This is my nurs
emaid,” Ella told him.

  “I see.” Penn nodded politely.

  “Come, lassie. You’ve a hot plate of stew waiting for you at our table.” The woman tried to take the child’s hand, but Ella squirmed out of reach.

  “May I have just ten minutes to converse with this gentleman?”

  “Nay. It’s time to eat.”

  “Five then?”

  “Ella . . .”

  “Two minutes. He said I’m not bothering him. Please, Shona,” the young girl drawled with the practiced skill of an actress who knew how to win her audience. “Two. Only two. I have something to say to him. Please.”

  The maid’s exasperated expression told Penn that this was a regular episode. She shook her head.

  “Give me one minute, and I promise I’ll finish my dinner and sit quietly until the next stop.”

  “We both know there’s about as good a chance of that happening as . . .” Shona looked apologetically at Penn. “If you’re certain she’s not bothering you, Captain. I’m right there. Please just send her on her way if she gets to be too much.”

  Penn was entertained. His lifestyle excluded any regular interaction with children. What he knew of them was through the stories his men shared. The infants didn’t sleep. As soon as they could walk, they were prone to bumps and bruises and were constantly underfoot. Five-and six-year-olds? He didn’t know what that age was like, but whatever his impression might have been, this child didn’t fit it.

  Ella waited until the nursemaid sat at the adjoining table before she spoke.

  “Shona is married to Dougal. He’s outside now, looking after our luggage. They married three years ago.” She held out three fingers. “The reason why they don’t have children is because I fixed them.”

  “Fixed them?” he asked, giving up trying to hide his smile.

  “A wee bit troublesome?” She shook her head gravely. “I am a lot troublesome.”

  And amusing. Penn wondered what the parents of this little one were like. The child’s intelligence and independent spirit had to be a challenge. He recalled his brother’s letter. He was to accompany four adults and a child to Baronsford. He wondered if this was the child.