Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots

by Glynnis Campbell

  How could he forget? He’d only had the blasted runes burned into his memory since he was old enough to recite it. Loving his grandminny as he did, he recited the words to her. “May your journey be quiet and your days of joy long. May your deeds remain strong for Odin. May your love stay true to your noble heart.”

  Her eyes gleamed with pride. “Aye, laddie, ye have the way of it.”

  How anyone could put so much stock into a pile of stones and words carved into a lid, he did not know. Especially when it had such a dark history surrounding it.

  Connor thought it all nonsense, of course. His faith did not lie in wishes and enchanted wells. People made wishes at other times of the year, though what or who granted those he didn’t know and daren’t ask his grandmother.

  Still, he supposed if it gave her some measure of peace and happiness, who was he to try to take that away? Pushing his frustration aside, he decided he should probably enjoy this moment with his dear grandmother. This was her seventieth summer on earth and though he believed she’d outlive him and the rest of his clan, there was a distinct possibility she was not as immortal as either he or she believed.

  “Do ye remember how to make yer wish?” he asked as he stood beside her.

  She quirked a brow. “Of course I remember, ye heathen!” she said playfully.

  Reaching into his sporran, he pulled out a small coin and tried handing it to her.

  “Nay, lad, no coin today,” she told him. “If I want this wish to come true, I must use somethin’ more valuable to me than coin. We must make our wish today, and by Christmastide, we will know if it has come to pass or no’.”

  ’Twas her belief that the most important and special of wishes required her to give up something she treasured, to show her deep sincerity. Connor smiled at her. “And what will ye be usin’ this year?”

  Reaching into her pouch with gnarled fingers, she pulled out something he could not see and held it tightly in her hands. “What will ye be usin’?” she asked him.

  “I fear I only brought coin today.”

  Instead of chastising him for forgetting protocols of years passed, she smiled up at him. ’Twas a loving and tender a smile as any grandminny could have for a favored grandson. “Then we shall use this and make our wish together.”

  Playfully, he asked, “and what if my wish comes true and yours does nae?”

  “Who says we’ll nae be wishin’ fer the same thing?”

  He had no wish prepared. Oh, there were things he longed for, things he prayed to God for on a daily basis, but he hadn’t come to the well with a particular wish in mind.

  “I ken what it is yer heart desires, grandson,” she told him with a most serious tone and expression.

  “Ye do?”

  “Aye,” she nodded. “Ye wish fer a lovin’ wife, children, and peace.”

  With a raised brow and pursed lips, he asked, “How do ye ken this?”

  She cackled and patted his arm. “Och, laddie, ye’ve been longin’ fer these things since before ye had a beard to shave.”

  He hadn’t thought his heart was so transparent.

  “’Tis true, is it nae?” she asked.

  He took in a deep breath. “Aye, it be true. I pray each day fer a wife and bairns and fer peace fer our clan.”

  He’d had a wife once and a bairn. But Maire had died within hours of giving birth to their son. Born far too early, the wee babe they’d named William, after Connor’s father, died the following day. That was more than four years ago. He thought he’d never get over the loss. But now? Now he was chief of Clan MacCallen and it was important—for himself and the clan—that he try again. Besides, he was also a very lonely man.

  “Then we shall wish fer the same thing this day, lad,” Bruanna took his hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I shall count to three before tossing this into the well and we shall wish together for all that yer heart desires.”

  All me heart desires?

  Though it went against everything he believed in, Connor MacCallen decided that one little wish could not hurt.

  * * *

  Braigh had seen the lass crouched low behind the ancient, crumbling wall. She was hard to miss, with her red hair blazing in the afternoon son. He’d quietly drawn his sword and watched with a careful eye. ’Twas sacred ground his brother and grandmother were on, as well as the lass with the fiery hair. Still, one could not be too careful. The enemy could come in any form.

  From atop his horse, with sword ready, he was too far away to hear the conversation taking place between Connor and Bruanna, but close enough he could intervene if necessary.

  At the lass’s feet was a woven basket filled with something he could not see. Weapons perhaps? Nay, he doubted it.

  The longer he stared, the more he thought he recognized her. Some vague memory from his past began to creep into his mind. But no matter how hard he tried to pull it forth, it escaped him.

  Plenty of women in his clan had been blessed with red hair, even his own wife. But this girl’s hair? It blazed red and auburn and brown. Her build was slight and wee. Young she was, mayhap no more than eight and ten. She wore an odd dress, at least as far as he could tell, that looked old and worn. He could just make out patches on the sleeves as well as one large patch on the side of the skirt.

  He turned to watch his grandmother and older brother’s annual tradition of tossing something into the well. Though he couldn’t hear them, he was quite sure he knew what they were saying. Connor was undoubtedly holding his tongue, daring not speak his true thoughts as they pertained to the well. His grandminny was more likely than not doing her best to convince him to open his mind and heart to the possibility that this time, it might just work.

  Braigh believed in the power of the well, even if his brother didn’t. It was his fervent belief that his wife, Lorna, would never have fallen in love with him were it not for the wish he made here less than a year ago. He’d wished for her in particular, with all that he had, for he had loved her since he first laid eyes on her when he was a lad. And now they were married and expecting their first babe in the spring.

  Connor held Bruanna’s hand as she tossed the coin or whatever she was offering up this year into the well. Long moments passed before they stepped away to begin the journey home. Braigh remained behind, watching the fiery-haired lass to make certain she would not pounce the moment his brother and grandminny stepped off the sacred ground.

  Time stretched on and the girl made no attempt to move or attack. Feeling certain she was no foe, he tapped the flanks of his horse and left to follow his family home.

  * * *

  Onnleigh’s heart pounded against her breast as she crouched behind the stone wall. She’d heard the horses coming before she’d seen them. Not knowing who approached, she ducked down and hid. Moments passed before she heard an auld woman’s voice.

  She hid for many reasons. Mostly because she was Grueber’s daughter and did not want anyone to accuse her of trying to steal the coins from the well. She knew it couldn’t be done, taking the coins, unless one lowered themselves into the well with a rope. And she only knew that because her da had tried before, unsuccessfully, and moaned about his misfortune for days after.

  Still, she didn’t wish to take the chance.

  At first, she did not know who it was who had come to make their wish, but it didn’t take long to figure it out. ’Twas Connor MacCallen and his grandminny.

  She hadn’t seen Connor in over a decade. Of all the children of her clan, he was one of the very few who had ever shown her a moment of kindness. But then he’d been sent away to foster somewhere, and she was left without a friend or ally to her name. Not long after, she’d been all but ostracized.

  Straining her ears, she could hear him and Bruanna talking about their wishes. Only minutes before, Onnleigh had made a wish of her own. Though she didn’t have a coin to her name, she had used the only thing of value she owned: a necklace. ’Twas worth nothing to anyone but her. ’Twas the o
nly thing of her mum’s she had left now, besides the clothes she now wore. A long strand of leather with one tiny pink shell affixed to it. Not knowing if the wish would work without a coin, she was mighty glad when she heard Bruanna say, If I want this wish to come true, I must use somethin’ more valuable to me than coin. Mayhap there was a chance her wish might come true after all.

  When she heard Connor admit to wanting a wife and child, it nearly stole her breath away.

  After they left, she lowered herself so her back was against the ancient, decrepit wall. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she lifted her sleeping babe from the basket and held her close.

  A beautiful little girl named Nola, born in mid-August, with little wisps of red hair and big blue eyes. Nothing of the man who sired her was visible in the wee babe’s face. For that, she was mightily grateful.

  There had been no yarn to weave blankets, no soft linens with which to make clothes for her daughter. So she had taken her one an only chemise and fashioned several gowns out of it for her daughter. She had cut an old blanket into squares for nappies.

  When she had discovered she was carrying Darwud’s babe, she thought her world had come to an end. Out of fear, she hadn’t shared her discovery with her da. Hiding her growing belly had been difficult, but not impossible, for he was too wrapped up in his own miserable life to pay any attention to hers.

  Then on a warm night in April, Grueber died in his sleep. Onnleigh shed no tears over the loss, for what was she truly missing? He had never provided for her, had been demanding, mean-spirited and drunk every day she could remember.

  Nay, she had no tears to waste for the man who had sired her but never cared one whit about her.

  So she dug a hole far from their hut, wrapped him in his filthy sheet, and rolled him down the hill and into his final resting spot. It hadn’t been easy, but why should she expect such when he’d been nothing less than difficult in life?

  Naught much changed after his death, for he hadn’t been any help to her while living. Admittedly, things were far more peaceful after he was gone. So much so that she quit dreading the thought of impending motherhood and chose to focus instead on what joy a babe of her own might bring.

  A child she could love and cherish, who would love her back. She’d be a patient and kind mother, would give the babe everything in this world she possibly could.

  It mattered not that Darwud had sired Nola, mattered not that he didn’t even know of her existence. Nay, the only thing that mattered was all the love Onnleigh had in her heart to give another being. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so alone in this world.

  Then reality set in, just minutes after giving birth.

  She hadn’t a clue what she was doing. She’d never been around a babe before, at least not that she could remember. There was no one to turn to for advice or help. The only things she knew with a certainty were how to love her, feed her and keep her clean.

  It had taken days for her milk to come in. She worried her poor Nola would end up starving to death. Blessedly, that did not happen, but still she worried.

  The babe seemed to be hungry all the time. Day and night. Onnleigh worried her milk might not be good enough for the babe, didn’t know how soon before she should try giving her little bits of food, such as gruel. Did all babes eat this much?

  Were all babes as beautiful as hers? Did they cry like she did? Did they pee as often as she did? Was she too cold? Too hot?

  Endless questions and not a soul with whom to ask them.

  Weeks passed and Nola grew, but Onnleigh worried it was not by enough. Many a night, she walked the floors, cradling a crying babe and not knowing what on earth she should do for her.

  After a time, Onnleigh’s confidence in her abilities to provide for this beautiful, sweet babe began to wane. She finally realized she could not do it. Could not give her anything, not even a decent gown to call her own. They had naught in this world but each other. Soon, she began to realize that love mayhap was not enough.

  She’d tried praying, as she remembered her mum had done before she died. But prayer wasn’t working. Her heart grew heavier with each passing day.

  With nothing left to do, Onnleigh bundled up her babe and headed to the wishing well. She could remember going there as a little girl, with her mother, to make wishes she could not now recall. The well was not far from her croft, and thankfully, Nola slept on the trek through the woods and over the rise.

  She had made her wish.

  And only moments later, Connor MacCallen had appeared almost out of nowhere, with his grandminny. Together, she’d heard them make a wish for him. A wife, children, and peace.

  She couldn’t give him a wife, and peace was just as impossible.

  But she could give him one thing. Something she loved more than her next breath, something she did not in truth want to part with, but she knew there was no other way.

  Chapter 3

  ’Twas long after the evening meal when Connor made his way to the tiny kirk that stood east of the keep. Made of stone, with tall, narrow windows, the kirk had been built by his great, great grandsire.

  Just as he had done every day since losing his wife and son, he waited until the keep’s inhabitants had settled in for the night. A clear, inky sky filled with twinkling stars, he needed no moon to light his way, for he knew the route by heart. Stepping inside the cold night air of the kirk, he lit a candle from one of the torches that lined the entrance and made his way to the front. There he set the candle on the stone bench and knelt before the large wooden cross.

  His prayers rarely differed from one night to the next. As always, he prayed for peace for his clan and for a wife who would love him and give him many children. Tonight, he added an extra prayer for his grandminny, that God would see to it to give him a few more years with her.

  With eyes closed and hands folded together, so focused was he in his prayer, he hadn’t heard anyone enter the kirk. Much time passed before he was finished. Making the sign of the cross, he left the bench.

  As he made his way down the aisle toward the door, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye; something he knew with a certainty had not been there when he arrived.

  There, on the last pew, was a basket.

  When he held the candle closer to see what was inside, his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets.

  A wee sleeping babe with little tufts of red hair lay bundled in an old worn blanket inside that basket. He blinked once, then twice, in case he wasn’t seeing clearly. But aye, he was. Quickly, he scanned the inside of the kirk for any sign of another person. There was none other than he and the babe.

  For the longest time he sat next to the basket in hopes that someone had simply set it down for a short while, mayhap to use the privy, or whatever else would necessitate leaving a babe there unattended.

  An hour passed and no one had come to claim the babe. All the while, he tried to convince himself that the babe had not been abandoned. But his heart, it knew it had been.

  * * *

  By midmorning, the entire keep was in an uproar over the babe someone had abandoned in the kirk.

  Some believed ’twas God’s handiwork, that he had placed the babe there for Connor to rescue.

  Others believed ’twas an abomination, either the fact a mother had left her child, or the child itself. “A mum would nae leave a perfectly healthy babe.” “The babe must be possessed to make her mum leave her like that.”

  Connor had a different way of thinking. More likely than not, the child’s parents had abandoned her in the kirk in hopes that the priest would find her a good home. It had to be someone from within his own clan for the gates were locked and guarded each night.

  “Ye cannae be serious,” his mother-in-law Helen scoffed at that idea.

  “Aye, I am quite serious.”

  “But ye cannae do that, Connor! Ye cannae claim the child as yer own!”

  They were standing in his private study, having yet another battle. There had been
many betwixt them over the years. For some reason, Helen held the belief that he actually cared what she thought. He didn’t. Never had. Not when he had returned from fostering, not when he had stolen her daughter away in the middle of the night to marry her, and definitely not now. He was trying to be polite, but she didn’t make it easy. Helen was a hard woman. Hard to figure out. Hard to get along with. Hard to like. Still, he felt he owed it to his dead wife to be as kind as he was able to her mum.

  “But if you and Margaret get married and have babes of yer own—” she began.

  Had he not been cradling the babe in his arms, he would have shouted. “I am nae going to marry Margaret.”

  She scoffed again. “Bah! I’ve seen how ye look at her with lust in yer eyes. Ye ken ye want to marry her, but ye refuse because ye ken I want ye to.”

  I stare at her all right, but because I find it difficult to believe she was Maire’s sister. “I do nae stare at her with lust.” In truth, he tried to avoid her at all costs.

  “Ye only say these things because ye dunnae like me,” she said dismissively. “Either way, if ye claim this child as yer own, when ye do marry someday, ’twill be a bastard child who inherits instead of yer own blood.”

  The woman had a gift of saying the wrong things at the worst of times. “Helen,” he said as he held the babe to his chest. “Ye may leave now.”

  “This will break Margaret’s heart,” she told him, her voice harsh.

  I was nae aware she possessed one. “Good day,” he said.

  Connor let loose a long breath of relief when she slammed the door behind her.

  “That, lass, is a woman ye should never model yerself after. She be cold, with a heart of lead, that one,” he told the bundle in his arms. She was a sweet babe, with bright, dark blue eyes.

  Thankfully, his cook, Louisa, had stood behind his decision. She’d even gone so far as to acquire goat’s milk and a wee flagon with which the child could suckle. “Nae near as good as mother’s milk, but ’twill do,” She had told him just an hour before.