Brenna's Yuletide Song: A Scottish Yuletide Novella

by Cathy MacRae

  A bird squawked overhead and launched itself from the rowan tree’s delicate branches, flinging a shower of partially-melted snow squarely upon Brenna’s upturned face. Her eyes widened in surprise, hand suspended before her mouth. Before Uilleam could lower himself further in her estimation by bursting into uproarious laughter, she gasped, sucking the bite of pastry down the wrong pipe, and burst into a round of furious coughing.

  His guffaws silenced into real concern, he grabbed her shoulder and jerked her to her feet. He spun her about, hair flying in a black cloud as her cap slipped from her head. He forced her face-down over his arm which he buried beneath the soft curve of her breasts, then landed two substantial thwaks between her shoulder blades with the heel of his hand hard enough to rattle her teeth.

  With a whoof, she expelled the mouthful. She gripped his arm, gasping for breath. Disaster averted, Uilleam found himself distracted by the curves laid against him. Her buttocks nestled between his thighs, her breasts sliding against his arm and over the cupped palm of his hand as she straightened.

  Heat shot through him, throwing him off-guard. He hadn’t expected this reaction—for the second time in as many hours. Though his expectations of this unlooked-for marriage hadn’t extended to the bridal bed, it was pleasant to note he would not be tempted to shirk his husbandly duties.

  But it wasn’t a love match. Had he expected as much? As the laird’s son, was he entitled to marriage on his terms? He truly hadn’t considered his prospects, as his time was better spent chasing down thieving MacNairns, quaffing whisky, and tupping the occasional eager lass. Expectations of marriage had not entered his head.

  Until now.

  Brenna shoved from his arms, spinning about to place a stinging slap on his cheek.

  “Ow!” Pulled rudely from his thoughts, Uilleam stared at her, fingers probing his jaw—she packed quite a wallop for a mere lass—tongue testing his lips for evidence of blood. “What was that for?”

  Her eyes sparked. “Ye groped me!”

  He stared. “I saved yer life! Ye were choking!”

  Bending, she snatched her cap from the ground and gave it a good dusting before jamming it back atop her head with a practiced twist of her wrist to capture her hair within its folds. Color rushed to her cheeks, sweeping up from her neck to the very roots of her hair. Her bosom heaved and Uilleam itched to place his hands where his arm had been only moments earlier.

  Damn! Why were women so hard to understand?

  Brenna lifted her chin. “Thank ye for your intervention, Sir.” She sniffed.

  “Och, for the love of . . ..” He caught himself on the brink of losing his temper. He had groped her—though it had been unintentional, he had to admit he’d enjoyed it.

  A trio of revelers, locked arm-in-arm, jigged by in a merry dance, passing between Uilleam and Brenna, likely saving him from further pointed comments. The brightly-clad lass on the end, saffron-yellow stockings flashing from beneath her leaf-green skirts, caught Brenna’s arm, pulling her into the fun.

  They pranced through the hastily cleared area as watchers clapped and whistled encouragement. The line of revelers grew, weaving like a snake until the pair on the ends joined hands, creating a large circle. They circled left, then right, merged to the center then back. The ladies spun about, the hems of their skirts swirling about their feet. Brenna’s cape whisked back and forth, exposing her leggings.

  Someone laughed and the women to either side of Brenna hiked up their skirts to show off their colorful hose. A hand drum increased the beat. Cheeks grew rosy with effort and cold as feet tapped out the intricacies of the dance. Brenna was passed into an inner circle, spinning faster and faster.

  Uilleam crossed his arms over his chest. Brenna swept by, her face averted, caught in the middle of the revelry. Was she happy to join the dance? Or did she wish she’d been left out of it?

  Poor lass probably has never had to do something she dinnae wish to before.

  Except marry me.

  Chapter Six

  Sunlight filtered through the buildings, striping the lane beneath her feet. The sounds of merrymaking filled the air as Brenna and Uilleam strolled through the market. As Brenna’s heart regained its normal beat—though her feet still tapped, remembering the dance—she realized she was famished and quite thirsty.

  “I wish to return home.”

  Uilleam regarded her with a raised brow. Her eyes narrowed. Someone should shave those overly-expressive brows from his forehead. She disliked the implication of inferiority he attained whilst portraying a slightly amused air—as if she were an unusual, though not particularly clever bug.

  “I am hungry. François does not like his schedule interrupted.” She bit her lip, considering the man before her. Did a barbarian eat on a regular basis? “Certes ye understand the importance of schedules?”

  “We are a distance away from Eun Mòr and yer fancy cook’s victuals. But there is an inn a wee jaunt up the street where we may sup.”

  Brenna’s eyes widened, shocked to her very toes. An inn? Papa will expire!

  Excitement of the forbidden—or, at least, previously denied—warred with a tiny bit of fear—and indignation. Her betrothed would subject her to a common inn? He is truly a barbarian! If this is how he plans to treat me . . .. Do barbarian women frequent inns? What will Elesbeth have to say? Oh là là! She fanned her cheeks.

  The inn, its sign bright with fresh whitewash and the silhouette of a black bird hanging over the doorway, squatted between two other buildings on the cobblestone street, their rooftops alternating in height like the jagged teeth of an ancient crone. One closed shutter protected half of the front window. The thick panes in the other side, clouded with grime, allowed only the suggestion of light and movement inside.

  Brenna drew back as Uilleam reached for the door latch. “Ye mean to take me . . . inside?”

  “I would dine with ye in the king’s hall, m’lady, were that available. Howbeit, last I checked, he doesnae reside in Corbie’s Burn.”

  “As if ye’ve ever dined with the king,” she scoffed, hoping to hide her sudden attack of nerves at the thought of striding into a public inn wearing pants. Riding in the leggings Papa had forbidden had only been expedient. She’d given little thought to her attire whilst striding through the market, her clothing hidden beneath her voluminous cape. But expose her legs, snow-damp cloak, and bedraggled cap to the common folk of Corbie’s Neuk Inn? Oh, là là!

  She patted her head, ensuring her cap was still in place, encountering straggling bits of hair protruding from beneath the band. Pinching the strands, she pushed them back underneath the hat.

  Uilleam’s infuriating smirk returned. “I’ve dined with several kings. Some with better manners than others.”

  She bristled. “Are ye insinuating, Sir, I’ve no manners?” How dare he claim such? Her previous night’s antics aside—which were little more than a display of pique—she always had exquisite manners. Maman said so. And other than insisting papa was right to agree to this marriage, Maman was never wrong.

  “Conscience bothering ye?” He jerked the door open and a waft of heated air spilled out. “I’m hungry and nae growing younger standing out here bickering with ye.” He nodded to the doorway. “Inside, if ye please, m’lady. Nae harm will befall ye.”

  Brenna tossed her head at his suggestion she was afraid to enter the inn—though she was—then peered cautiously about as she stepped through the door, half-expecting a torrent of cat-calls and chilly disapproval. Mayhap pirates or something equally fraught with danger. Surely the women inside would look disparagingly on her choice of attire. Leggings were just . . . easier.

  Two heads, no more—and only one of them female—turned at their entrance. The man went back to his meal, the woman raised a hand and beckoned them inside.

  “Welcome to . . . click . . . Corbie’s Neuk, laddies . . . click. Find a seat and I’ll . . . click . . . send a . . . click . . . lass to ye faster ’n ye can . . . click . . . say
clootie dumpling.”

  Laddies? I look like a lad? Brenna slid a hand down the reassuring length of her cape, then leaned close to Uilleam.

  “Why does she click?”

  Uilleam peered at the woman in question, but she had returned to her task and no longer clicked. He shrugged. “I dinnae know, but we may find out later. Mayhap something is wrong with her teeth?”

  Brenna shuddered. Most people suffered from varying degrees of tooth ailments, but she found rotted teeth and bare gums made her queasy.

  I hope she does not prepare my food.

  Uilleam steered her with a hand at her elbow to a table near the hearth. Finding his eyes on everything except her, she scuttled quickly to a seat, her back against the wall.

  Uilleam motioned for her to rise. “’Tis my seat, lass. Scoot doon.”

  Though couched in a largely neutral tone, the reprimand bit. “Why is this your seat? I was here first. Ye scoot doon.”

  “I dinnae sit with my back to the room or boxed in. I can protect ye better if I can see trouble before it starts and be free to move.”

  His reply made sense—not that she would voice agreement of a snippy scold—and Brenna shifted down the narrow bench, allowing Uilleam his choice of seat.

  He took up far too much room. Warmth rolled off him as he settled next to her, trapping her between his hip and the large, soot-streaked hearth stones. She wriggled on the bench. His kilt rode up his leg, exposing nearly a hand’s breadth of hairy leg above his knee. She drew a shocked breath and clenched her hands into fists to stifle her desire to discover if the hairs were wiry or soft.

  Oh, là là! What would possess her to do such a thing?

  His booted foot clipped against hers and she startled as if she’d been stung.

  He sent her a questioning glance—bright blue eyes boring into hers. “Do ye need to visit the privy?”

  Mortification swept over her—and, to her dismay, his question provoked the obvious, previously unnoticed answer. Yes.

  She bit her lip and shook her head. Why had he asked? Barbarian! Her belly growled and the urge to relieve herself grew. Uilleam stared at her. Sliding the bench back, he rose.

  “Come. Alan and Caz will order for us. The others will attend us.”

  She drowned in embarrassment. How could he mention the privy in such a public manner, asking her father’s guards—men!—to come with her to . . . to . . . pee? Has he no sense of propriety? Barbarian! If this is how he intends to treat me . . .!

  She scrambled to her feet and fairly skipped along the passageway to a private chamber located at the back of the inn. Uilleam tossed a coin to the woman who’d greeted them earlier and she unlocked the door with a grumble.

  “Paying for a room . . . click . . . when he could . . . click . . . take his piss ’neath the . . . click . . . tree outside.” With a shrug, she dropped the coin in a small bag at her waist.

  Uilleam cleared his throat. “Er, mistress, could ye kindly answer a question for us?”

  She sent Uilleam a squinty-eyed, suspicious look. “Aye,” she drawled. Click.

  “Why are yer teeth green?”

  The woman grinned, exposing her peculiar bite. Brenna’s eyes widened. By Saint Andrew, the lower ones were green!

  Four front teeth were the most unusual shade of green with a shiny coppery wire wrapped around their bases.

  With a flick of her tongue, the woman flipped the bits into her hand and held them up for viewing.

  “Got ’em from a laddie what couldnae pay ’is bill.” She waggled her tongue in the now-apparent gap. “’E said ’e got ’em some place I cannae recall—’cept it wasnae around ’ere. Mayhap Italy?” She peered at the teeth lovingly. “Made from real teeth, they are, and bound with copper wire, ’e said, which turns ’em green.”

  She popped the teeth back into her mouth and settled them in place with a snap. “The fit isnae . . . click . . . perfect. ’Tis why they . . . click . . ..”

  Astonished, Brenna could only stare. This was better than the fire-swallower at last Yuletide’s festivities.

  Uilleam managed a nod. “Thank ye. That clears things up a bit.”

  The woman cackled and accepted another coin from Uilleam before clumping back to the main room.

  He and Brenna exchanged glances.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” Brenna admitted.

  Uilleam shook his head. “I’ve seen false teeth before, though they were in considerably better shape.”

  “Do they stay in . . . I mean, she said they do not fit well. Do they ever fall out?” Brenna couldn’t imagine a worse fate than to have teeth . . . fall out . . ..

  Uilleam chuckled as he opened the door and leaned inside the chamber. “I imagine they do.”

  Apparently satisfied to declare the room empty, he motioned Brenna inside. “Ye’ll find the pot inside the wee closet. Dinnae be over-long.”

  She tossed her head, annoyed by the assumption she’d dally. “Ye may take your . . . turn . . . at the tree outside.”

  His grin widened. “Such an improper suggestion from my proper little bird. Next ye know, ye’ll say the word piss.”

  Brenna stepped quickly inside, slamming the door behind her, aware her cheeks had to be positively flaming from Uilleam’s suggestion.

  I will not say . . . She had difficulty even imagining the word! ’Twas the word other people said, coarse people. She said . . .. What word did she use? She shrugged. No matter. ’Twas a private matter, not one open for discussion, no matter how casual Uilleam mentioned it.

  Her head awhirl with the image of green teeth and . . . that word, she located the chamber pot. Completing her business with unaccustomed speed, she then pulled off her cap and fluffed the drooping felt and feather before tucking her hair beneath it again. She might be wearing leggings and resemble a lad, but she’d keep her hair covered—as a proper woman should.

  She considered Uilleam’s payment for her use of the chamber, uncertain if she was pleased by his acumen at realizing her desire for privacy, or appalled to have shared such a private need. Was there a glimmer of chivalry beneath his barbaric clothing? She recalled his cheeky grin. Highland chivalry? Was there such a thing? Ha! Doubtful. Very doubtful.

  Smoothing her cloak—and noting with dismay fresh stains at the hem—she opened the chamber door. Uilleam’s bulk filled the portal. Heat slid up her neck as his gaze slipped over her from hem to cap.

  ’Tis not as if he caught me doing something improper. Her private scold did little to ease her embarrassment. She lifted her chin.

  “Do ye need a turn?”

  A slow grin slid from one corner of his mouth to the other, then lifted one mobile eyebrow. “I’ll find the tree the goodwife mentioned.”

  Brenna swept past him, infuriated by the chuckle in his voice and the reminder of her earlier words.

  Seated once again at the table, safely surrounded by Uilleam’s men and her father’s guards, Brenna pointedly ignored Uilleam, turning her gaze to the room’s inhabitants.

  Most were men. Why that surprised her, she didn’t know, but she scooted an inch closer to Uilleam, perhaps to emphasize she was under his protection. It couldn’t hurt, and the curious glances sent her way rather unnerved her.

  The women present—except for a pair of twittering females seated at a table against the window, their uncovered hair tumbling across their shoulders in a mass of ill-kept blonde and brunette tangles—appeared to be servants.

  Her attention pulled back to the pair at the window. Heads together, they chortled at some private joke, darting glances—at her!

  She nudged Uilleam. “Why are they staring at me?” she hissed. “They’re laughing!”

  Uilleam glanced at the two women. His neck and cheeks darkened and his brows lowered like storm clouds rolling across the Firth. Alan and Caz followed his gaze.

  Caz snorted and elbowed Alan. “Friends of yers, eh, Alan?”

  “Nae. Those wee birdies look like they belong in yer nest, nae
mine.” Alan returned the nudge, rocking Caz on the bench.

  “I’d gladly host the pair, though the blonde seems more to my liking.”

  Brenna cocked her fists on her hips. “What are ye talking about? What birds?”

  “Och, nae true birds, m’lady,” Caz said, dark eyes dancing. Alan swatted the back of his head.

  “Ow!” Caz whirled on his friend as he rubbed his pate.

  Alan tilted his head toward Brenna. “Mind yer manners.”

  Sudden knowledge wrung a gasp from Brenna. She cut her gaze to the two women. “Oh là là,” she whispered. “Do ye mean they’re . . . crumpets?”

  Chapter Seven

  Caz and Alan burst into laughter. “Strumpets, m’lady. Strum—pets!” They slumped against each other, eyes welling tears of mirth. Embarrassment warmed Brenna’s cheeks.

  Uilleam leaned across the table and pummeled Caz’s shoulder hard enough to cause his head to clack against Alan’s.

  “Ow!” Caz sent him a resentful look as he rubbed his head once more.

  “Keep a civil tongue in yer empty head.” His eyes blazed.

  Caz and Alan grumbled but did not elaborate further on Brenna’s dearth of knowledge.

  The innkeeper’s wife hurried over, a tray of bowls, bread, and pastries in her hands. A serving girl waddled at her heels, arms straining against the weight of a steaming pot. The innkeeper’s wife set the tray on the table and the servant ladled fragrant stew into the bowls.

  “Och, m’lord . . . click . . .. Dinnae let those two . . . click . . . drive ye away. I’ve a fine meal . . . click . . . ready for ye and . . . whoops!” She caught her false teeth with practiced ease as they flipped in an arc from her mouth—grabbing them neatly before they plunged into a bowl of stew—then seated them back in place with a smile, scarcely missing a beat in her plea.

  Click. “I will see that Mattie and Gara . . . click-click . . . find their amusements elsewhere.”