Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  Myrna, already exuding a maternal air as she moved gracefully through the rooms, was especially excited to spend time with Ella, who was also quite interested in their hostess. Together, the two played games and chatted while Freya settled in and prepared for dinner.

  After the unexpected events in Gregory’s bedchamber last night, she had felt awkwardly transparent in the carriage today and was relieved to have Ella’s attention focused on someone else. As they’d ridden along past forests and farms, she could not look at Gregory and not recall the feel of his mouth on her lips and throat and breasts. Every time a rut or turn in the road caused their legs to touch, she again felt the pressure of those thighs that had made her fly apart with pleasure. She traveled the entire day in a perpetual state of excitement, and she felt as if Ella was far too aware of her agitation.

  Passion. How was it that she’d reached her age and never known the overwhelming response it wrought in a person’s body and mind? What Gregory made her feel last night had irrevocably changed her, and she’d experienced it without him ever taking her to his bed. He had satisfied needs in her that she barely knew existed. But what about his needs?

  As they all sat together at dinner, Freya felt his gaze continue to come back to her, but she avoided looking at him. The infatuation she’d developed for Captain Pennington only added to her sense of awkwardness. In spite of her overwhelming feelings, she was fascinated to hear the story that John Simpson shared with them after Ella, allowed to dine with the adults at Myrna’s insistence, asked about the man’s limp.

  “I don’t mind talking about it at all,” he said to the little girl. “I came away from battle with this limp, but if it weren’t for this man’s courage, I’d have certainly lost my life.”

  From the moment Captain Simpson raised his glass to Gregory, Ella wasn’t the only one who was impatient to hear the story. Freya found herself hanging on his every word.

  “It all happened at a place called Benavente in Spain,” he told them. “We were both attached to Lord Paget’s forces at the time, though we scarcely knew each other then. The army was moving west, trying to reach the sea. It was nine years ago this month, and the wintry weather was hard upon us. The ground was half frozen, and a river we’d just crossed was swollen from the recent rains. We engineers demolished the bridge, but the French cavalry crossed the river anyway. Perhaps eight hundred of them.”

  He paused and had a sip of his wine. Everyone at the table was focused on him, with the exception of Gregory, who was staring into his glass.

  “The bullets were flying and the sabers were flashing in air,” he continued, telling his story directly to Ella. “I took a bullet in this leg and went down in the middle of the battle. I thought I was finished, for the hooves of horses pounded about my head. Suddenly, I felt myself hoisted up from the ground and thrown over the shoulder of your gallant captain.”

  Simpson again raised his glass to Gregory.

  “With his own sword swinging, he fought off the enemy as he carried me from the field to safety. Lord knows how far it was, but he never paused for breath before climbing on to a stray warhorse and galloping back into the fray. I earned a limp for my troubles, but I’d have died out there as sure as we’re sitting here. And I have one man to thank for it, and that hero deserves and has my gratitude forever.”

  Their host sat back after finishing the story, and Freya and Ella looked as one to Gregory. He’d never mentioned any account of this bravery in all their talk about his past.

  “Captain Simpson here has been known to embellish details a wee bit,” he said, obviously uncomfortable with the looks of hero-worship on the faces of the women at the table. He glared at his friend. “It’ll be no time before you’re saying that I descended from a cloud and parted the sea to save you.”

  A humble champion, Freya thought.

  Ella knelt up on her seat and opened her arms to Gregory, who was seated beside her. “May I have a hug from a hero?”

  Obviously surprised and moved by her request, he looked at Freya before hugging the child to his chest.

  She brought her napkin to her lips to hide the sudden trembling of her chin. Affection for him permeated her very being. A bond had formed between Ella and the captain, one that she guessed her niece would always remember and look back on fondly.

  Since they were finished with their meal, Freya excused herself and Ella, deciding this was the best time to tuck her niece in bed. Upstairs, as Shona joined them and pulled Ella’s nightgown over the little one’s head, the story they heard downstairs was retold with flourishes to the nursemaid. Settling Ella in the bed, Freya expected to hear more questions about the war, since she’d lost her father in it. And she was surprised to find that the direction of her niece’s curiosity was focused on their hostess.

  “Is Mrs. Simpson going to die after she has her baby?”

  “No. No, sweetheart. Not all mothers die delivering their babies,” Freya assured her, caressing the soft curls as Shona sat in a chair by the fire, working on her sewing.

  “How many of them do die?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying to think through what she was about to say, already knowing every answer would only trigger a dozen more questions. “Not too many.”

  “When you marry Captain Pennington and—”

  “I am not marrying Captain Pennington,” she corrected, ignoring the snort coming from the area of the nursemaid.

  “When you marry Captain Pennington,” Ella started again.

  Freya frowned at her niece.

  “Very well,” the child said. “When you marry Gregory and get big in the belly like Mrs. Simpson, will you promise me not to die?”

  * * *

  Simpson’s cigar had gone out twice since the two men were left alone in the dining room, and Penn saw it was about to go out again. His friend was a man who focused on one thing when he warmed to a subject, and he was particularly enthused about this one.

  “They’ve begun calling Union Street the ‘Granite Mile’ and it’s a thing to behold. Putting in the street took tremendous skill, from an engineering perspective. We needed to level a good portion of St. Catherine’s Hill and then build arches to carry the road over Putachieside. It’s a thing of beauty, I swear to you.”

  John continued to elaborate on what had already been accomplished as well as the plans they had in the works. The changes were extensive, to be sure, but Penn knew the building here was not an isolated phenomenon. Major ports all over Scotland, including those in the Highlands, were undergoing expansion and improvement. Since the end of the French wars, shipbuilding and the fishing industries were becoming increasingly important, spurring the need for more and better harbor facilities, roads, and bridges. Men like Simpson and himself were needed to serve on civic building commissions in every major city. His skills would be in high demand if he were to stay in Scotland.

  As his friend talked, however, Penn’s mind drifted to Freya. The warm expression passing across her beautiful face when Ella called him a hero and hugged him was one that he could easily get used to.

  “I need some information that you might have, John,” he said when his friend had finished opening up most of the Highlands with hypothetical new macadam roads. “Tell me what you know about Colonel Richard Dunbar.”

  “He’s a bad egg, as you know,” Simpson responded, pouring more wine for the two of them. “A relation to your Miss Freya, isn’t he?”

  “A greedy relation. A cousin standing in the wings, waiting for her father to die. Dunbar becomes baron when he does, and inherits a respectable fortune in the process.” Penn made no mention of the fact that Freya intended to marry the scoundrel.

  “Nothing new about that,” Simpson observed. “But unless the baron’s health is in dire straits, I believe the colonel may be in serious trouble.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “It’s money, of course, as it usually is with fools who let the gaming tables get the better of them.” He took
a moment to light his cigar. “Everyone at Fort William knows he’s in debt and over his head. No polite London society parties or gentleman’s clubs out there, as you know. But the gaming hells . . .” He shook his head. “I just recently heard that Dunbar was talking about selling his commission to pay his debts, but it’s not nearly enough.”

  “I don’t imagine those sharps out there are about to look kindly on a long-term note from him.”

  “Not likely.”

  “How much does he owe?” Penn asked.

  “Only rumors, of course. But the last I heard, he owed seven thousand pounds,” Simpson told him.

  Penn let out a low whistle.

  “You and I have seen more than a few gentlemen over the years lose their fortunes.”

  Unfortunately, that was the truth. For many, gambling was a habit they couldn’t break out of. Men would wager on everything from cards and dice and horses to a race between two dung beetles.

  “They become so desperate that whatever honor they have left is cast aside,” Simpson continued. “Lying, cheating, fleeing the country. Irreparably ruining a family’s reputation. Men do foolish things when they fall on times like this.”

  And when Dunbar’s carcass landed in ditch—and Penn was certain that he would, eventually—Freya and Ella’s future would be ruined. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “Do you know anything about any imminent marriage to a Caithness heiress?”

  “I heard it, and it’s all a lie. He’s done this before to buy himself time. Six months ago, there were rumors about an engagement to an earl’s daughter from Yorkshire. Again, a lie. The colonel’s situation is dire.”

  Chapter Eight

  Today was the first time these two women met, but Freya had no doubt that if they lived in the same town, they’d be frequent visitors in each other’s home. After leaving her sleeping niece with Shona watching over, she joined her hostess in the drawing room.

  Myrna was curious about how she came to be raising Ella, so Freya told her of the fate of the girl’s parents. After having spent some time in Ella’s company, she was also interested in knowing how difficult it had been to raise such a bright and precocious five-year-old with no husband.

  “I wouldn’t know the difference,” Freya replied frankly. “Between my father and Shona and a household of people who dote on my niece, I believe we’ve been managing the responsibility . . . collectively.”

  Asked about this trip to Baronsford, Freya simply told her that this was the first opportunity for the child to meet her paternal grandmother. She saw no reason to share anything about the dowager’s ultimatum or even Colonel Dunbar. At the mention of Lady Dacre, however, Myrna found another topic that connected them.

  “Ah, the families of the very rich,” she said with a sigh. “I hope Ella’s grandmother is an exception to most, for I believe the wealthy are tutored in the strategies of being difficult. I pray that your visit with her will be pleasant and free of any trouble.”

  Her words caused Freya to look closer at her hostess. “Captain Simpson’s family has been challenging?”

  The young woman paused, building her courage to voice what troubled her.

  “They have been,” Myrna admitted. “But if I can speak in confidence, they were against our marriage.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Freya told her. “I can’t imagine that anyone who has met you could have any objection.”

  “They’ve never met me,” she said, “because I am half Scot and half Irish, and my father is a clergyman. Here I am a year later, carrying a child, and they still refuse to invite us to Staffordshire or acknowledge me in any way.”

  “I think that is unconscionable behavior on their part,” Freya exclaimed, her heart going out to the young woman. Her sister had never met her husband’s family either. They’d shown no interest in seeing Ella.

  Myrna managed a weak smile. “But none of that truly matters. John is the finest of husbands and terribly good at what he does. And as you see, we’ve established a home that we can be proud of.”

  Freya reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “A home that soon will be bubbling with the laughter of your bairn.”

  Myrna’s face bloomed. The young couple were happy, regardless of family.

  “So tell me about Captain Pennington,” her host said, changing the topic. “From what I saw tonight, the two of you have an understanding? Has he declared himself publicly?”

  Freya felt her face immediately flush hot. She searched for an explanation to defuse any mistaken impression. “No! The captain and I are only friends. Ella’s grandmother is meeting us at his family’s home in the Borders because the Earl of Aytoun’s estate in Hertfordshire is quite close to Lady Dacre’s. It was really only kindness . . . consideration on the part of the captain to escort us. If Ella’s attachment to him has given you . . . She’s so keen on . . . I don’t . . .”

  Myrna’s hand softly touched Freya’s, putting an end to the senseless babbling.

  “I understand,” the young mother-to-be said consolingly.

  Efforts at denial continued to race through her mind, but after last night, it was all a lie. Something had certainly happened between them. Something wonderful and magical. She was a different woman today than the innocent twenty-two-year old who’d set out on this journey.

  “Considering Captain Pennington’s plans, I certainly understand your heartache.”

  A chasm opened beneath Freya, and hope drained out of her. A painful knot formed in her chest.

  “Yes . . . his plans,” she said, pretending that she was aware of whatever Myrna was referring to.

  “When John heard the captain had notified the corps that he intended to resign his commission, he was happy for him until he heard he was planning on going to America.” Myrna shook her head. “Boston is so far away.”

  “Boston,” Freya repeated, her heart sinking even further.

  “John says the captain has family there. An uncle and cousins. We understand Boston is a growing city where a man can make his mark, but it’s not exactly home, is it?”

  Boston. Feeling her chin begin to tremble, she stood, using the excuse of fetching a shawl from a chair across the room to buy herself a moment.

  What was she thinking? How could she have been so foolish as to think their little romance on the road could magically resolve all of her troubles?

  Picking up the shawl, she closed her eyes for a moment and thought of him. Gregory had never lied to her. He’d said a great deal about his past, but nothing about his plans for the future. Last night had been a gift. How else could she think of it?

  “You didn’t know, did you?”

  Myrna’s troubled tone made Freya turn around.

  “I did. Of course,” she lied. “As I said before, there is no understanding between me and Captain Pennington. None whatsoever.”

  * * *

  As Penn and his host joined the women in the drawing room, his eyes immediately found Freya. He needed to steal her away. He had so much that he wanted to speak to her about—thoughts that were half formed, but that he still desired to share.

  Two brightly upholstered settees faced each other by the fire, and she was sitting beside Myrna like an old friend. Her gaze fixed on him the moment they entered, her eyes caressing his face as if trying to lock his image in her memory. Or was it last night that she was thinking about? He didn’t know.

  Each time he saw her, he became more enraptured. With the firelight behind her, her light-brown hair formed a halo around her angelic face. The desire to cross the room and take her into his arms was almost overpowering.

  Their hostess rose and stretched a hand out to her husband. “Walk with me. Your child is being especially acrobatic tonight.”

  As the couple took their turns about the room, Penn moved to Freya, his leg brushing against her skirts as he sat beside her. He knew it was not his imagination when her shoulder pressed ever so gently against him. He took her hand in his and caressed the soft
skin and slender fingers. John and his wife were on the other side of the room, their attention focused on each other. But if they were aware of their guests’ conduct or not, Penn didn’t care.

  “I’m afraid I tire very easily these days,” Myrna said, approaching them. “Please forgive my leaving you, but I must go up for the night.”

  Penn and Freya stood to say good night. Behind them, the fire popped and flared in the hearth, mirroring the tumult in his chest.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back down shortly,” John said, adding, “I don’t like her trying to manage those stairs by herself.”

  The moment the door closed behind their hosts, Penn took Freya in his arms. “I hoped to have this chance to tell you—”

  He never finished for she raised her fingers to his lips.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for what you’ve done for Ella . . . and for me. Thank you for your generosity and your kindness. Thank you for accompanying us on this trip and giving us an experience that we’ll cherish for—”

  This time he was the one to interrupt. He kissed her deeply. All the passion that had been building inside of him this entire day poured out like a torrent. A dam within him had burst, and he knew it.

  The moment she leaned into his touch, he took possession of her mouth. He didn’t let her go until he felt every layer of reserve drop away. She was kissing him back with as much fervor as he was feeling, until finally he broke off the kiss. He had so much he wanted to say to her.

  “I don’t want gratitude. It is I who could go eternally about the change you have brought into my life.” He could not contain the raging flood of emotions. “You and Ella are precious gems. Remember that. You cannot give yourself over to an uncertain . . . or unfavorable future.”

  She kissed him again. Her arms slid upward, encircling his neck. Her breasts pressed against him, and she placed soft kisses against his chin, on his lips. She ran her fingers through his hair, her mouth moving to his ear, where she tasted his earlobe.