Flora and Fergus beamed thanks. “That wasnae necessary, but good of you.” Fergus set down his ale, looking most pleased.
Breena shifted, uncomfortable. The Munzies’ gregarious welcome reminded her so much of her Uncle Dermot and Aunt Mell. Worse, each time Grim spoke of them as a couple, she felt a terrible hollow ache in her heart. She hoped to use this journey to fill that emptiness, to replace it with love.
What if she failed?
She didn’t think she could bear it.
She also needed air, worried that these happy couples might have the opposite effect on Grim, reminding him of wedded bliss, of how inappropriate a wife she would make him. A village commoner without even a dowry, and him a great warring man of noble blood and so well respected.
Glancing at the door, she cleared her throat. “We should be going. The MacGregors—”
“Surely, you’d rather rest a night?” Malcolm’s wife, Moira, was suddenly beside Breena, her lovely face warm and sympathetic. “Enjoy fine company, a good meal, then a hot bath and fresh bed?
“You’ll be glad you stayed.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I’ve noticed you’re walking a bit stiffly. I’m not keen on riding either and know how you feel. Let your man see to your comfort before you journey on.”
“Indeed!” Fergus winked at her, his apparent exceptional hearing making Breena blush to the roots of her hair. “I insist you stay.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Breena didn’t know else what to say.
She did smile, doing her best to play the part she and Grim had agreed upon, to pretend that they were a happily betrothed pair, soon to be married, deeply in love.
How she wished they were.
In truth, this was her big chance.
She hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing a bed with Grim before they’d set off on their journey.
The notion of bathing in the same room as him was even more jarring.
And—the gods help her—so tantalizingly wicked, she could hardly stand still for the delicious tingles whipping across her womanhood. Equally bad was the slow, languorous heat pooling so deep in her belly, low by her thighs. Her other worries vanished like mist before the morning sun. Such a fierce reaction surely meant she was wanton.
How shocking that she didn’t care.
She did glance at Grim.
He was leaning against the wall beside the hearth, his arms crossed and his beautiful gray eyes hooded. No, thoughtful. When he lifted his gaze and looked at her, she knew exactly what he was going to say.
“I thank you, Fergus.” He pushed away from the wall and came forward, carefully lifting his wolfskin cloak and then Breena’s own woolen mantle from her shoulders. Crossing the room, he hung them on pegs near the door. “My lady and I gladly accept your offer. We’ll appreciate your company, and a room for the night. Indeed, we have much to speak of with you. The hours at your table will serve us well.”
Breena stopped hearing him the moment he agreed for them to spend the night at the farm. Her blood was rushing too loudly in her ears to catch the rest.
There was no going back now.
Her destiny was in her hands, another Yuletide surprise, and one she’d never expected. She just hoped she could do what she must: convince Grim to stop thinking of her as only a lady.
She was also a woman.
Hopefully by the morrow’s sunrise, he’d agree.
Chapter 5
The night wind howled around the Munzie farmhouse as Grim, Fergus, and Malcolm sat at the long wooden table, enjoying their tankards of ale. Bright red holly berries glistened against the pristine white tablecloth, the sprigs of greenery joining a cluster of fine, beeswax candles to lend a festive air. A large plate of Flora’s aromatic spice cakes tempted, tasty as they were. A trace of roasted goose also lingered, the scrumptious scent almost irresistible.
Grim knew a generous portion of the goose waited unattended on a platter in Flora’s kitchen. There were even two untouched capons. He’d be welcome to fetch more of the succulent meat, as much as he desired.
He didn’t care.
His mind was elsewhere.
Despite the purpose of his journey and with the Midwinter Solstice less than three nights away, his thoughts were entirely on Breena.
He was ridiculously besotted. More so than he would ever have believed possible. He couldn’t stand being in the same room with her and not touching her.
He did watch her, though he tried to do so without her knowing.
She huddled with the women, closer to the fire. A fat log had been tossed onto the peats and it blazed cheerily, giving off a lovely golden glow that limned her so beautifully, his heart clenched. The ladies shared a bench and a large plaid they’d draped over their knees. Grim’s brow furrowed to see that the three of them looked as if they’d been friends the whole of their lives.
But that wasn’t what bothered him.
It was how they also appeared deep in the mysteries of feminine chatter. Watching them from deliberately hooded eyes, he was sure their banter included a good dose of womanly scheming.
He’d seen Breena’s face when Fergus gave them no choice but to accept his offered lodgings.
She was up to something.
He could feel it in the air, and in his bones. He also didn’t care for her sitting so far across the room from him, however ludicrous the sentiment. The farmhouse’s main living area wasn’t even large. There was barely space for the table currently occupied by the men. The stone hearth with its great blackened cook-kettle hanging from a chain took up most of one wall, while the ladies’ bench and a second, empty trestle beneath a window provided the only other furnishings.
Pegs on the wall offered places to secure cloaks and plaids, and candles and oil lamps joined the hearth fire in adding light, such as it was.
A faint but comforting haze of peat smoke tinged the air, the aroma made even homier by the lingering scents of Flora’s excellent cooking. Always a delight to Grim’s animal-loving soul, two large and shaggy dogs, each one looking older than stone, slept on tattered plaids spread near the hearth. The aged beasts’ snow-dampened coats lent a dash of pungency to the room, and a welcome coziness.
The dogs’ snores warmed Grim’s heart.
Unfortunately, the noise swelled in volume each time Breena said something to Flora and Moira. And no matter how hard, and inconspicuously, Grim strained his ears, he couldn’t catch a word.
A large basket of mistletoe sat on the floor beside the women and they busied themselves tying glossy gold and silver ribbons to the round, white-berried clusters. The task seemed to occupy them well enough, but Grim doubted mightily that the making of holiday decorations was the reason for their babble and certainly not for their occasional knowing nods, tsk-tsking, and oh-so-secretive smiles.
He was sure Breena spoke of him.
And he burned to know what she said.
Frowning, he tore his gaze from her and looked down at his fingers, wrapped loosely about his ale tankard. Large, war-scarred, and callused, his hands were far from bonnie. He couldn’t imagine placing them on Breena’s smooth, creamy skin. Especially her naked, intimate flesh: the full roundness of her breasts and the temptation of her sweetly-curved hips, her bared belly and the dark, womanly delights that waited below, so unbearably alluring.
In truth, putting hands such as his on beauty like hers was almost a sacrilege.
Yet how could he not?
He ached to touch her. So badly, he feared he’d go mad if he didn’t.
He also wanted to taste her. But he shoved that desire from his mind as soon as it appeared. Ravenous as he was for her, he might devour her whole, frightening her so roundly she’d fall into a faint.
Still…
He wasn’t a man to deceive himself about his looks or charm, both qualities he knew weren’t his strong points. Yet he had the most powerful sense she desired him. That she might be hoping to seduce him. Unlikely as the notion was, he could
n’t get the possibility from his head and it affected his entire body. Indeed, he’d been stone-hard for hours.
Praise the gods, his mail tunic and his plaid hid the aching result of his mind’s wanderings.
“A siller for your thoughts, my friend.” Fergus leaned across the table, knocking his tankard against Grim’s.
Malcolm glanced at Breena, nodding sagely. “I’d no’ need a coin to ken his mind,” he vowed, lifting his own ale for a long, slow sip. “I spend enough hours being miserable myself when my Moira must leave my side, even briefly. She’s the air I breathe, that woman.
“I need her aye in sight, better yet in my arms.” He set down his tankard and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “I could live a thousand years and ne’er have enough of her. And I’m proud to say it.
“You, lad”—he fixed Grim with a piercing gaze—“are blessed to have your lady now, the whole of your lives stretching before you.”
“That I know.” Grim spoke true, his respect for the older man demanding honesty.
His honor required it, too. Never before had he claimed to be something he wasn’t and he found doing so didn’t sit well with him at all.
Indeed, it bothered him so greatly that his other annoyance began to lessen, the fierce throbbing dampened by his distaste for deception. He did desire Breena, so much that he could scarce keep himself from leaping up from the table, crossing the room in two great strides, and pulling her into his arms, now and for all time coming.
Instead, he took another long sip of ale and prayed to the gods for guidance.
Surely they’d speak to him at Yule.
Wasn’t this a time of miracles? Days and nights when magic was said to happen?
Hoping it was so, he drew a deep breath, willing in his heart that Breena would want him as much as he wanted her. He prayed for a wonder, angling his head to listen, wishing for a sign.
He peered hard at the golden flames of Flora’s fine beeswax candles, even the glistening holly berries, hoping for divine inspiration.
But the only voice he heard was Fergus’s. He’d missed his host’s words, catching only the deep rumble of the older man’s query.
“Sorry, Fergus, I didnae hear you.” Grim set down his tankard and turned his full attention on the farmer, not wanting to add rudeness to his fast-growing list of sins. “What did you say?”
“Och, I asked how you met Lady Breena.” Fergus glanced at the women, his interested gaze lighting on Breena before he looked back to Grim. “She’s Irish, so I wondered.”
“Aye, she is, from Inishowen in Donegal.” Grim was glad to speak true. “Her village was raided and ransacked, burnt to the ground. The brigands stole her away, taking her with them across the sea to Scotland. When they attacked Archie’s Duncreag, she was still their captive. You already ken how my liege lord, Kendrew Mackintosh, and his Nought men, rode to help Archie fight off the raiders.
“When Duncreag was restored to Archie, Breena remained in his household.” Grim tamped down the rage that always rose in him when he remembered what Breena had been through. “She had no one to return to in Ireland. Her family and even her home were no more.”
He paused, his own words tasting like ash on his tongue. He couldn’t shake the ill-ease that always ripped through him whenever he thought of her home, the possibility she might someday return there. He knew she missed Ireland sorely. What if that ache was greater than any feelings she might have for him?
Not wanting to allow such a possibility, he glanced at the window. Through the slant of the shutter latches, he could see snow was falling. Moonlight illuminated the yard and one of Fergus’s hounds was just rounding the well, the dog’s breath frosting the air.
Grim turned back to the table, hoped the other men wouldn’t sense his frustration. “Breena is a fine woman,” he said, knowing he’d never spoken truer words.
“And now she’s yours.” Malcolm nodded. His tone was sympathetic. “The gods work in mysterious ways. Have you been betrothed long?”
Something inside Grim twisted sharply, paining him more severely than any battle wound he’d ever suffered. He took a long breath, braced himself for another lie.
It wouldn’t come.
The untruth lodged in his throat, sitting fast as if the gods had clamped an admonishing fist about his neck, forcing him to be honest.
Something he wanted and needed as well.
He drew another deep breath, struggling to clear his throat, the unpleasant tightness in his chest. Fergus and Malcolm were watching him oddly, their tankards forgotten as they looked at him, waiting expectantly for his answer about his betrothal to Breena.
Grim flattened both hands on the table and sat straighter, everything in him demanding he be forthright. “I have wanted Breena since I first set eyes upon her,” he admitted, the truth putting wings to his heart, freeing his soul. “Ne’er have I loved a woman more. Indeed, I ne’er even believed in love. Leastways, no’ for me.”
He didn’t answer Fergus’s question about their betrothal.
“I could’ve said the same when I met my Flora.” Fergus, as great a romantic as his wife, was grinning at the answer Grim had given him.
Malcolm took a long sip of ale, wiped his mouth, before setting down his tankard. “The very hills held their breath the day Moira crossed my path. For sure, my world changed in an eye-blink. I spent most of my life aching for her. Now I’m whole again.” He looked across the room as he spoke, his voice solemn, his gaze on his lovely lady wife. “Truth tell, she is my life.”
Risking a glance her way, Grim’s heart lurched to see that Breena was gone. His pulse leapt in dread and he almost jumped from his seat before he remembered their hosts’ promising her a bath. Indeed, not too long ago, he’d noted Fergus’s two older sons carrying a wooden tub and buckets of steaming water up the farmhouse’s dimly lit stair. There, too, garlands of holly and ivy announced the season. Broad red ribbons decorated the greenery, leading the eye upward, to the shadowy landing at the top of the steps.
Breena would be in the guest room now, bathing.
Grim frowned, a certain most-male irritation returning with a vengeance.
Breena wet and naked, her bare skin glistening with soap bubbles, was an image he daren’t dwell upon. To be sure, he shouldn’t think how she’d look after her bath, her sweet womanly curves smooth and gleaming with scented oils. Such torment was beyond endurance.
So he did what he could do and thumped the table with his fist. “You’re good men, the both of you!” he declared, changing the subject. “I knew you’d agree to ride to Duncreag, arriving as if you expected Archie to host Yuletide festivities, as he did in olden times.
“But I ne’er would’ve pressed you to bear gifts.” Grim glanced to a large wicker basket Flora had set on the table earlier. It contained a few jugs of her own special blackberry wine, linen-wrapped smoked herring, a delicacy in these hill-girded parts of the Highlands, so distant from the sea. She’d also added plenty of her far-famed oatcakes.
As a nod to Christmas, there were two gaily wrapped packages of her fragrant spice cakes.
“Och, such is the least we could do.” Fergus made light of the gesture. “The MacNab is a fine man. He’d do the like for us, no doubt in my mind.”
“I agree.” Malcolm drew in a breath, clearly reminiscing. “I met him years ago, at court in Stirling. He was a bonnie, carefree lad in those days, his tongue so silvered all the ladies swooned if he just glanced at them. I grieve to hear he’s had such a hard time of it. He sounds less than a shadow of his old self. To be sure, he’ll need cheering. Moira and I will greet him gladly, and with a Yule token.” He patted a leather-wrapped package beside his ale tankard.
Malcolm’s offering was an intricately carved mead horn, edged in finest silver. He claimed he had two such horns with him, and he wouldn’t miss the one. Grim knew better than to embarrass Malcolm by showing he knew that wasn’t so. The truth was, beneath the old warrior’s dignity beat a
heart as soft as Grim’s own.
Grim was grateful.
He wanted Archie’s Yuletide surprise to be splendid beyond his wildest dreams. That Archie secretly yearned for such a joyous celebration stood without question. Grim knew the old laird well.
He also knew that he couldn’t remain at the table a moment longer.
Not with Breena in the room above, splashing about in steaming, scented water while the night’s wintry chill slipped in through the window shutters to flush her cheeks and pucker the sweet crests of her breasts. As for the rest of her, the tantalizing curls at the vee of her thighs…
Before he could imagine further, Grim shoved back from table, standing.
“I’m away, men. My lady and I have a long ride ahead of us come the morn.” He didn’t dare glance down, hoped to Thor his mail and the folds of his plaid hid what Breena did to him. “Fergus”—he turned to his host—“I thank you for your hospitality.
“Malcolm, I rejoice we met this day.” He clapped a hand on the old warrior’s shoulder, squeezed once. “Your happiness lifts my heart. I am happy for you and Lady Moira.”
“No more gladdened than we are for you.” Malcolm nodded, reached to set his hand briefly over Grim’s. “Now,” he added, smiling, “dinnae let us keep you.”
“Och, nae!” Fergus grinned, even winked at him. “Away with you, right enough. Make haste!”
Fergus and Malcolm exchanged knowing glances, their lips twitching as if with some unspoken secret.
What a shame Grim knew what it was.
They thought he was going abovestairs to make love to Breena.
And wasn’t he a great flat-footed arse for not correcting them?
He turned away before he did. Such a denial would be yet another lie. He’d already filled his belly with more than enough falsehoods. There wasn’t room for any more, and he was weary of them, besides.
Once Upon a Highland Christmas (Highland Warriors Book 3) Page 7
