"I am not," she said stiffly, knocking the spoon against the side of the kettle, and lifting the pot away from the fire.
"Are you not? Well, I am," he said. He tugged at the spoon, but she would not give it up. She stirred resolutely, though her cheeks bloomed with color and her breath quickened. "Catriona," he said patiently. "Let go of the damned spoon."
"Why?" she asked. "Are you hungry?"
"I am that," he growled, and flung the spoon away, turning her in his arms. He pulled her close, kneeling with her beside the hearth stones, and kissed her profoundly.
For a moment, she hesitated. Then she sighed out and her lips softened beneath his, as if she struggled within herself, and found the strength to surrender.
She circled her arms around his neck and tilted her head beneath his, framing his jaw with her slender hands, kissing him with a trembling joyfulness that made him want to weep suddenly, not for what he had lost, but for what he had found.
He slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her deep and certain, and let his hands skim the curving contours of her body. A wealth of thick wool separated them, but he felt her graceful, willing undulations against him. That silent eloquence poured through him like fire, and the hardening strength in his body urged him onward.
She slid her fingers through his hair, returning his kiss with a fervency that took his breath. He circled his hands around her waist, beneath the drape of her plaid, and moved upward to find the slope of her breasts. He caught her little glad cry between his lips, and knew that she shared his need.
He hoped, ardently, desperately, that she also shared the love he felt. Like sunlight bursting through clouds, the feelings that burgeoned inside of him streamed through his blood and being, adding fire to his touch as he held her.
If he let go of her, then and there—if he walked out into the cold and let the lust that flamed in his body cool to ice—he would still feel this fiery yearning that fueled his desire. She charmed him, nurtured him, filled the emptiness within him like light poured over shadow. Kin and feuds and promises aside, he loved her, simply, deeply. He could not do without her now.
Kneeling with her as they kissed, he wanted more of her, more of this. He touched the incredible softness of her breast, warm and hidden beneath wool and linen, felt his own breath and blood pulse through him like wind-driven waves. He stood, lifting her as if she were made of no more than silk and a soul.
Setting her down on the fur-covered, rumpled bed, he looked into her eyes, questioning, waiting. Silently, she reached past him and drew the curtain shut. Her fingers closed around his arm, pulling him toward her in the darkness. He knelt, leaning over her, hands to either side of her, and kissed her gently.
"Catriona," he whispered, "listen to me, now. I love you." He kissed her again, letting his mouth, his breath, linger and blend with hers. "Whether we have been together for days or years is not important. What has begun will only grow stronger."
She closed her eyes, sighed, lifted her mouth to his. He caressed her lips, then lifted his head to gaze at her through the shadows. "I may be a Fraser, but I will be your luck, the whole soul of it," he murmured, "if you want me."
She made a small sound, half sob, half laugh, and drew him down to lie beside her. He wrapped his arms around her, his heart pounding against the rhythm of hers.
"I do want you," she answered. "Good omen or poor, you fell at my feet on New Year's Eve, and I want you for my own, so much," she whispered. "But you must not ask me to wed you."
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but she laid a silencing finger against his lips. He felt a poignant tug of deep emotion in his chest, and sank his fingers into the silk of her hair as he kissed her gently. The hunger of her returned kiss surprised him, fired his craving for more. Meeting her lips again, he thought he tasted the salt of tears. But she smiled when he looked at her.
He savored the small, moist cave of her mouth, and his hands traced over the graceful shape of her, impeded by wool and linen. She caressed his arms, his waist, and tugged at his plaid; he shifted, letting her divest him, while he pulled at her laces, slid wool gently away from her, until they lay bare together. The curves of her body were luscious in shadow, touched by tiny stars of daylight that fell through the curtain weave.
He was aware that they hurtled fast toward a brink that would carry them forward, and change them both forever. Heart pounding, he kissed her mouth and slowed, giving her time to think, to stop him. She sighed and traced her fingers down his arm, a welcoming, loving gesture.
He kissed her throat, the soft, globed sides of her breasts, her velvet-firm nipples at last, until desire rendered him breathless. When he traced his hand over her flat abdomen, she gasped and shifted closer, settling her hips to his so sweetly, so intently, that he groaned and tilted himself away from her.
"Hold," he whispered. "Hold, love. You must be certain."
"I am," she said. "Did you not say yourself that I am quick to decide, and hopelessly willful?"
"Hopelessly," he murmured, and kissed her again. He slid his fingers gently along her waist, over her abdomen and down; he found the small, soft seam and parted it delicately. She sighed, and swayed against his caressing fingertips, showing him the cadence with her breath and motion. Her seeking, tender fingers explored the hard map of his torso until he gasped and groaned low and rolled to his back, pulling her over him.
His heart thundered, his blood and breath pulsed heavily, and he could hardly hold back. She moved over him with gentle, inexorable power, like a wave of the sea, sweeping him into her current. He held her, kissed her, shifted toward her; she opened over him in a graceful arching motion, and he was lost.
He sucked in a long, full breath and slipped inside the warm haven of her body, rocking beneath her with a lingering, aching, heartfelt rhythm. Her body thrilled him, nurtured him, gave him solace. He felt her love then, genuine and deep, flowing over his heart like warm, restoring rain. And he knew, as if these exquisite moments worked subtle magic, that now he was forever blended to her, body and soul.
He held her in his arms while the shared rhythm of their breathing slowed, while their bodies parted reluctantly. She curled beside him under the warm fur covers, while wind whistled against the outer walls. After a long while, she looked up.
"I love you well, Kenneth Fraser," she murmured. "I want you to know that." Her voice was soft and sad. "But I will not wed you. I will not risk that for you."
"Ach, stubborn girl," he said gruffly. "It is my risk, and I will take it."
"I will not have you die at the hands of the MacDonalds for loving me." She sat up, grabbing her clothing, pulling her shift and her gown over her head. He reached for her, but she slipped out of the enclosed bed. He snatched up his shirt and trews and yanked them on, then moved toward her, where she stood by the window.
He touched her shoulder. "Surely you have changed your mind now," he murmured, tracing a finger over her cheek.
She shook her head, sadly, firmly, and looked through a crack in the shutter. "The sleet has stopped," she said. Her voice sounded faraway, as if she had withdrawn to some place where he could not follow. "You will be able to ride out soon. I hope you will go to the children. I am concerned about them."
"Did I not promise that already? Come with me."
"The cow would trample this house to bits if I left her alone," she answered. "If the children are fine, I want you to go on to Glenran from there."
He sucked in a breath, his heart pounding, aching. "What of the pledge the Frasers owe you?" he asked.
She stared out the window. "You have honored that," she said. "You helped me when I was...in need." He heard the tremor in her voice. "Now you are free. Go back."
"Not without you." He reached out for her.
She stepped away to gather oatcakes and cheese and wrap them in a cloth. She took up his plaid and handed it to him.
"You must go," she said. "Parlan and Hugh will come here, for it is the eve of Twelfth Nig
ht. You must leave, Kenneth."
"Catriona," he said softly. "What if a child comes of this between us?"
She lowered her head. "Then I would be glad," she said.
He stepped toward her, but she turned away. He sighed, sensing that she would not waver in this, not now. He knew her well enough to know that she needed time alone to think; he hoped that she would realize that her love was stronger than her fear.
"I will ride to see the MacGhille children," he said. "And then I will be back." She began to protest, and he held up a hand. "This is not over between us. I owe you a pledge, and I will fulfill it."
"I think Lachlann's pledge has been met."
"Perhaps." He watched her slender back, her proud head. "The snow rose brooch is but silver and stone, and its promise is easily met," he said. "But my pledge to you is priceless, endless. Do not make it worthless." He snatched up his plaid and led his horse toward the door.
Chapter Eight
Crisp smacking sounds and the high trill of children laughing soared through the air. Kenneth guided his garron carefully along the ridge of an icy hill, and looked down.
Below, on a small, frozen pond amid leafless trees, the eight MacGhille children slid and laughed and yelled. They brandished long sticks in their mittened hands, and batted a rock back and forth across the pond surface, then ran, skidded, and slipped in pursuit of the missile.
Kenneth smiled, recognizing the game as one he and his cousins played often in the winter. He urged his horse down the slope. As he approached, one of the younger boys saw him and yelled to the others, pointing. The children dropped their sticks and ran toward him.
"Kenneth Fraser!" Angus called as he ran at the head of the pack. "Where is Triona?"
"At the shieling," he said as he dismounted. "She sent me to see how you fared in the storm." Soon all eight of them, from Patrick to little Tomas, gathered near his horse.
"We did well enough," Angus said. "Patrick and I watched after everyone. Edan and Donald were scared, but—"
"We were not!" Donald protested, pouting.
"I'm proud of all of you," Kenneth said, smiling. "Catriona will be, too."
Edan pulled at his sleeve. "Did you bring gifts?"
"Cheese, and some oatcakes." Kenneth patted the bundle that hung on his saddle.
"We could not open the door of our house yesterday," Mairead said. She smiled up at him, her milky, glazed left eye drifted to the side. "Patrick and Angus had to push and push. It was frozen shut, but we were warm inside. And Tomas got a burn."
Kenneth frowned, and bent toward Tomas, who stood with his hand in Mairead's. "Let me see, lad," he said.
Tomas held up a blistered finger. "Fire hurts," he said.
"It does that," Kenneth said, sighing as he thought of the dangers these children faced without an adult to watch over them. He patted the child's head and stood. "How is the game of sinteag going?"
"We have no wooden ball to play the shinty properly," Angus said. "But we found a round rock. Patrick's team is winning, because my team is smaller, and we have Tomas."
"I can do it," Tomas insisted.
"I will be on your team, if I may," Kenneth said. With enthusiastic hoots, Angus and Malcolm ran off and returned with a broken tree limb. "Ah, this will do for a caman," Kenneth said, hefting the stick as he walked with the children toward the pond.
The game was lively and fast-paced. They slid over the ice in their boots, laughing and falling, and sweeping the smooth stone back and forth across the ice between their goals. Kenneth helped Tomas to skim the rock over the ice several times, raising cheers from everyone, none louder than Tomas. Kenneth made certain that each of the little ones managed to slide the stone past the opposite team's goal; he had rarely laughed so hard, or enjoyed a game so much, in his life.
When their cheeks were red with cold and their toes were numb, they left the pond and walked carefully over an icy hill. Kenneth perched Mairead, Tomas and Edan on the horse, and led the pack, walking beside Patrick.
He smiled, hearing their chatter, and thought of his own childhood. He and his cousins, most of them orphans, had been as close as siblings, playing, teasing, laughing and competing, though always fiercely loyal to each other. But Lachlann had always been there to guide the young Glenran Frasers. Beyond Catriona's loving concern for them, the MacGhille children were guiding themselves through life for now.
He sighed, glancing at the children, and realized that they had stolen into his heart, easily and completely, just as if they had always been there—and just as their beautiful cousin had done. With a strangely certain sense of rightness, he felt as if he had acquired a family of his own. He could not leave these children to fend for themselves, just as he could not return to Glenran and leave Catriona alone.
As they approached the house, Kenneth laughed aloud. A garden of snowmen filled the yard, tall and short, fat and fallen over, decked with bonnets and plaids. Beyond them, the snow fortress was partly collapsed and clearly well-used. "You have all been busy," he remarked to Patrick.
The boy grinned. "We built most of them after you and Catriona left the other day," he said. "But after the ice storm, I would not let the younger ones outside until this afternoon."
"You take good care of them, lad," Kenneth observed.
Patrick raised his head proudly. "I promised my parents that I would. A Highlandman never breaks a pledge."
Kenneth nodded silently, thinking of the pledges he owed to Catriona. If he could have taken Kilernan Castle from Hugh MacDonald alone, without bloodshed, he would have already done it. He wanted Catriona to be content, but he could not perform the impossible. He sighed heavily, wondering if he could ever convince her and the children to come to Glenran with him.
Later, while the children sat by the fire and ate cheese and oatcakes, Kenneth looked up to see Mairead, Malcolm and David take long white robes from a chest; they pulled them over their heads and pranced around the room while their siblings chuckled.
"We are practicing for our Twelfth Night feast tomorrow," Mairead announced. She tripped, her poor vision further obscured by a large white hood, and Kenneth righted her. "Will you and Catriona come? We shall have singing and dancing, and we shall all be guisers," she said. She spread her arms wide, long sleeves hanging limp. "My mother made these guising robes for my father and my older brothers to use at Yuletide. There are more things in a chest in the loft. They used to go about the hills with the other lads and men. Have you ever been a guiser?"
"I have been out with my cousins," he said, "on New Year's Eve and on Twelfth Night, wearing robes and animal hides and horns. We marched around singing, and beating drums and making merry while we frightened away the bad spirits." He grinned.
"Will you come to our feast?" Mairead asked. "Though we shall have only porridge and not a roasted beef. But Patrick said we could make a large oatcake to hide the bean, so that we could have a King of the Revels. Or a queen," she added. She reached past Kenneth and picked up a slice of cheese full of holes, and held it to her right eye. "I wonder if this will show me who will get the bean this year." She squinted playfully through a hole in the cheese and looked toward the fire.
Kenneth smiled. "I'm sure your brothers will let you be the queen of the feast," he said. "And I will ride back to the shieling and fetch Catriona for your Twelfth Night revels."
Mairead frowned as she peered at the fire. "Ach, Kenneth Fraser," she murmured. "Triona will not come. She does not want you to ride back for her. She wants you to ride home."
A chill ran along his neck and arms. He remembered that the child had the Sight; he respected the natural ability of seers like his cousin Elspeth, whose visions often proved true. "Mairead," he said quietly. "What do you see?"
"Triona cannot come to our feast, because she is not at home," she answered. Behind them, her brothers turned to listen. "She has gone to Kilernan." She turned, her eyes wide, her cheeks pale. "I saw Parlan MacDonald and Catriona in the fire just now, through
the hole in the cheese. They were holding hands, as if they were about to be married." Mairead leaned toward Kenneth. "But she would rather wed you," she whispered. "Even though you are a Fraser."
He drew in a long breath, and looked around at the other children, who watched him somberly. "I will ride back to the shieling." He stood. "And I will be back—with Catriona."
"You will have to go to Kilernan to get her, then," Mairead said easily, and fed the cheese to Tomas.
She was gone when he arrived. The hut was empty but for the cow, and the hearth was cold. He frowned over that; Catriona had been careful never to let the fire go out, fearing bad luck.
The cow lowed, a mournful, lonely sound, and stepped across the disheveled room, knocking over a stool as she went, bending her head to nibble some oats left in a sack. The other garron was gone; even Cù was gone.
Kenneth patted the cow's shoulder and fetched a bucket of water for her, frowning as he worked. He looked at the neatly made bed, then glanced away; haunting memories of the love they had made there hurt him keenly.
Catriona had clearly gone back to Kilernan. Had she decided to marry Parlan after all, finding a MacDonald more to her liking than a Fraser? He sucked in an angry, wounded breath and stomped out of the house, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Hoofprints marred the snow all around him as he trudged toward his garron. Several horses had been in the yard since he had left earlier. The MacDonalds had come for her, then; Parlan and his cousins, or even Hugh MacDonald, who had sent word through Parlan that he would fetch his niece for Twelfth Night.
Kenneth scowled as he swung up into the saddle. Had she gone willingly, or had she gone with regrets? Had she decided to wed Parlan after all, to gain a MacDonald home for her eight cousins? He squeezed his eyes shut in grief at the thought.
Christmas Roses: Love Blooms in Winter Page 7
