A Very Highland Holiday

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  At that moment, a huge clatter sounded. Neilan leapt to his feet, and Tavin rose slowly. Broc jumped and stared. An empty pewter plate Gair had set on a smaller table had fallen for no apparent reason. Neilan gazed at it in terror, and Broc also looked stunned.

  “Children’s stories.” Tavin resumed his seat with a thump. “Sit down, Neilan. Ye look like a half-wit.”

  Neilan resumed his seat, continuing to stare at the platter, as did Broc. Padruig, who’d knocked it to the floor while Stuart had held the cousins’ attention, continued to eat.

  “Mebbe.” Stuart shrugged. “Whether ’tis men or ghosts, ye stand to lose everything. Can ye afford to? Is that the true reason you’re here, trying to pick Broc’s pockets?”

  Neilan flushed guiltily, but Tavin bristled. “You’re mad. If men are terrorizing the lands of loyalists, they’ll be taken. Or shot.”

  “As I say, if ye can find them.” Stuart tapped the side of his nose. “Now, I can put in a word for you with the brollachan, tell it to leave ye be.”

  “Because you’re one of them?” Tavin asked. “Perhaps we’ll have you arrested.”

  “’Twould be inhospitable,” Stuart pointed out. “As I’m a guest in the house you wish to be yours.”

  Tavin began to splutter, but Fiona shushed him. She, like Padruig, had not jumped when the plate had fallen. It lay on the floor even now, the burnished pewter winking.

  “It is an interesting point,” Fiona said serenely. “Why the desire to take over Broc’s lands, Tavin? Everything not well at home?”

  “Of course everything is—”

  “Stop lying.” Neilan threw down his spoon and rounded on his brother. “We’re skint. All our tenants ran off too. But everyone knows ye have the better lands, Broc. Tavin wants them. And Fiona. Notice it’s me who has to stay home and try to eke out an existence while he takes over the laird’s castle.”

  “Shut it, ye cretin.” Tavin balled up his fist. Stuart reached across the table and caught Tavin’s wrist before he could bash his brother.

  Tavin extricated himself from Stuart’s grip and sat down, red-faced. Neilan quickly rose and moved away from the table, coming to rest next to a stone pillar.

  “I don’t notice Fiona saying she’ll marry ye,” Neilan snarled at Tavin.

  “A very good observation,” Fiona said. “I turned you down a few minutes ago, Tavin, if you recall.”

  “You’ll have to marry me.” Tavin’s polite affability disappeared. In its place was the hard ambition of a man who’d waited years to take what he wanted. “Look at Broc. He’s dying, or as good as. He’ll never walk right, never catch a bonny lass, as this lackey says, never have sons. You’ll never command as a woman, Fiona, even if ye do become laird. Ye need the might of men behind ye, and they’ve all gone, haven’t they? I’ll take over as laird, and if you don’t marry me, I’ll turf ye out. You’ll have nothing, nowhere to go. So ye have no choice, woman.”

  Fiona reached for her glass of whisky. “Ah, what a lovely proposal …”

  Stuart’s rage rose until his vision tinged with red. Tavin, with his round, pale face under the irritating wig, reminded him strongly of some officers Stuart had faced in battle, men who’d come out of their tents to fight only when they absolutely had to and then killed those who’d thrown up their hands in surrender.

  “She’ll not be marrying ye.” Stuart’s statement was flat, hard, and rang through the hall.

  “Are ye going to stop her?” Tavin’s smirk tempted Stuart to reach for the knife in his boot.

  “Aye.” He turned his gaze to Fiona, who had grown silent, her amusement gone. “Because she’s marrying me.” Stuart softened his voice as he held Fiona’s stunned gaze. “If she’ll have me.”

  The room went very quiet. Gair and Padruig ceased their noisy chewing and turned their way, interested.

  Fiona’s chest rose with her sharp breath. Stuart held his, waiting for her to laugh, to dismiss him with a wave, to say she needed no man. Fiona was a strong woman, who could stand on her own, no matter what her foolish family thought.

  Fiona’s eyes, the color of jade in sunshine, glistened in the lamplight.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Fiona’s quiet word, which she said with all her heart, had a different effect on all present. Gair appeared highly amused, Tavin incensed, Neilan surprised, Broc shocked. Only Padruig remained stoic.

  Stuart’s grin spread across his face, her wild Highlander coming to life. He leapt from his seat, knocking the bench over behind him, and was around the table before Fiona could gasp.

  He hauled her up and into his arms. “Ye mean it, love?”

  Fiona clutched Stuart’s coat, happiness flooding her. This was right. She never should have let him go when he’d walked out a year and more ago, never been so complacent that she could see him whenever she wished.

  She’d hang on now, wherever the road took them.

  Tavin’s hands landed on Stuart’s shoulders. “Traitor! I’ll kill you …”

  The polished veneer Tavin strove to paste over his Highland ancestry had fled. His face was mottled red, his wig sliding sideways as he attacked the boulder that was Stuart.

  Fiona ducked out of the way as Stuart swung on Tavin. Broc, to her astonishment, came to his feet and hobbled to Fiona, putting himself between her and the two fighting men. Protecting her.

  Stuart lifted Tavin, crushing him between his large hands. Tavin flailed and fought. He must have studied pugilism somewhere, because his punches were tight and swift, each jab landing on Stuart’s body.

  Stuart flung Tavin away. Tavin stumbled but gained his feet, his wig falling to the floor to reveal his shaved head, dark with stubble. His face was twisted with a snarl, an enraged Highlander denied what he considered his.

  Neilan stood stupefied as his brother toed off his impractical shoes and rushed Stuart. Stuart met Tavin in the middle of the wide room, a roar issuing from his throat. He must have yelled so at Prestonpans, where he’d captured English artillery, and again at Culloden, when he’d fought to the bitter end.

  Tavin’s arms flashed as he struck, Stuart defending blow after blow. Stuart was a larger man, but Tavin was quick and treacherous.

  A knife flashed in Tavin’s hand. Fiona cried out, but Stuart was already moving. He locked a strong grip around Tavin’s wrist, bending the arm around Tavin’s back. Tavin punched with his other fist, catching Stuart on the cheek, splitting it open. Blood spattered just as Tavin screamed, and Fiona heard a thin crack of bone.

  The next instant, Tavin was on the floor, sobbing and hugging his arm, as Stuart kicked away the knife.

  Stuart stood back, gathering his hair from his face, most of the soot having fallen away. The red gleamed in the half light, Stuart a grim giant over the fallen Tavin.

  “You broke my arm, you bastard,” Tavin ground out.

  “Forgive me, lad.” Stuart dragged in a long breath. “I’m tired of men sticking knives into me.”

  Fiona stepped from her brother and thrust a handkerchief at Stuart, who took it dazedly and touched it to his cut cheek. “Brawling in a laird’s hall. I’m amazed at both of you.”

  Her voice shook, her bravado failing. She knelt next to Tavin and gently probed his arm. Tavin cursed and wept, the savage Highlander fading once more into the spoiled boy Tavin had always been.

  “’Tis a clean break,” Fiona said crisply. “I’ll wrap and splint it for ye, and you’ll be healed in a few weeks. I suggest ye go home and rest, and not venture out for a time.”

  “Aye, I’ll take him.” Neilan sounded relieved.

  “I’m not leaving.” Tavin scowled up at Fiona and Stuart. “Not until I have what I came for.”

  “My lands?” Broc stumped over, moving more quickly than Fiona had seen him do in a while, his stick ringing. “My home, my sister—everything? Get out, Tavin. Ye’re not welcome here. Go back to your house and stay there. I, as your laird, command it.”

  “Ye have no authority over
me.” Tavin’s words were a gasp.

  “Aye, that I do. I’m head of this family, and now that ye’ve shown your true colors, I’ll do whatever I can to keep ye from inheriting. I’ll marry whatever lass will have me and sire as many children as I’ve got years left in me.”

  Stuart’s eyes twinkled with mirth over the blood-streaked handkerchief. “Better not say that when you’re proposing, lad. Might put a lady off.”

  Broc ignored him. “On your feet, Tavin. Let Fiona see to your wound, and then you’re gone.”

  Tavin finally looked worried. “In the night, and the snow? Have some pity, Broc. It’s Christmas.”

  “’Tis not Christmas until tomorrow. I don’t want ye here. Ye have a perfectly fine house ten miles away. Go before I find some way to throw you out of that too.”

  Tavin snarled. He swung his free hand at Fiona, but found it caught in Stuart’s fist.

  “I went easy on ye, lad.” Stuart lowered his voice to deliver the warning. “But if ye try to hit Fiona again, I’ll break every bone ye have.”

  Tavin gulped and subsided. Gair and Neilan emerged to flank Tavin. “Come on, you,” Gair said, one hand under Tavin’s arm. “Best ye retire from the scene of battle. I know how to set a broken bone.”

  Tavin threw a terrified glance at Gair and a beseeching one at Fiona. “Go with him,” Fiona said. “I’ll be in to look after you soon.”

  Stuart released Tavin into Gair’s care. Tavin had no choice but to let Gair walk him out, Neilan quivering behind them.

  Broc let out his breath. “I thank you, Stuart Cameron. I should never have let Tavin crawl under my skin. But I’ve been so afraid …”

  Fiona slid her arm around her brother, and he leaned into her gratefully. “Never mind,” she told him. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long this time. I didn’t realize ye needed me.”

  “No, I drove ye from me.” When Broc decided to become morose, he could be a master of it. “I’m glad ye returned, love. Stuart.” Broc offered his hand, the other resting heavily on his stick. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

  Stuart accepted the handshake, and he clapped Broc on the back. “Ye owe me nothing. Your blessing on my nuptials with Fiona and the sgian dubh I need, and all is cleared.”

  “I think Fiona will do well with you,” Broc said graciously. “As for the sgian dubh, you are welcome to search through what I have found. If this knife is important, it should be returned to its owner.”

  He glanced at Padruig, who’d remained on the edge of the conflict and reunion. Broc shrank a little behind Fiona as Padruig gave him a keen look from his one sharp eye.

  “I no longer need it,” Padruig said.

  Fiona blinked, startled. “Pardon?”

  “Padruig,” Stuart said with exaggerated patience. “What are ye talking about, man?”

  “I have the sgian dubh.” Padruig reached into his coat and removed a knife, holding it up to catch the light.

  Fiona saw a plain dark steel blade, worn from years of use. The hilt was wrapped in a strip of leather, and a crest had been melded to it. Fiona clearly read the word MacNab on top of the shield.

  Stuart growled. “How long have ye had that?”

  “Since Culloden.” Padruig calmly sheathed the knife and returned it to his pocket. “I took it from my dead brother.”

  Fiona caught her breath. “Your brother? Padruig, I’m so sorry.”

  “We were never close. But he was my kin.” His nod at her sympathy said the matter was at an end.

  Stuart’s fists balled. “If ye have the blasted sgian dubh, why did ye give me the rigamarole about finding it for you? Making us search the lass’s chamber at the inn, dragging us here? Through the snow? In the coldest part of December?”

  “Ye needed to come here.” Padruig flicked his gaze to Fiona. “She needed to. Ye were pining for her, Cameron. When I saw her at the inn, it put the idea in me mind.”

  Fiona shared Stuart’s exasperation. “To trick us into traveling home?” she blurted out. “Did ye know my cousins were here?”

  “No. That was luck.” Padruig shrugged. “All’s well, isn’t it? You’re betrothed and will soon be man and wife. And now that Stuart helped your brother, he’ll not betray you.” Padruig’s lips twitched into a faint smile, something rare to his face. “Gair likened us to the three wise Highlanders, the daft sod. Come bearing gifts. This is my gift to you.” He lifted his whisky glass. “Slàinte.”

  He’d barely taken a sip before Fiona flew at him, grabbing the startled Padruig in a hug and kissing his stubbly cheek.

  “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man.” Fiona clasped his arm while Padruig peered down at her, his gaze softening. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Stuart escorted Fiona up the stairs to the private chamber where Gair had retreated with Tavin—he could hear Tavin yelling all the way—to find that Gair had done a competent job of bandaging Tavin’s arm.

  Fiona studied Gair’s work, ran skilled fingers over the splint, and nodded. “’Tis well done. You’ll heal fine, cousin, so cease your wailing. Broc has kindly allowed you to stay the night, but you’ll be off in the morning.”

  Stuart did not like the idea of Tavin spending one more evening in this house—what would he get up to, even injured? But Fiona, smiling sweetly, gave Tavin a thick liquid to drink, explaining it would ease his pain.

  It must have eased it quite a lot, because after Tavin downed it, he slumped onto his brother, who reposed worriedly on the edge of the bed, and fell fast asleep. Gair, chuckling, retreated from the chamber and went back downstairs.

  After a moment, they heard Gair’s voice rise from below. “What? Ye bastard, ye dragged me across frozen Scotland and nearly got me shot and ye had the bloody sgian dubh all along?”

  “Shut it.” Padruig’s growl made Gair’s bluster fade. “The whisky’s good.”

  Gair trailed off into mutters, and Fiona smothered a laugh.

  She rose, but her legs immediately folded, as though she’d drunk the potion she’d given Tavin.

  Stuart caught her. “You’re all in, love. Come with me.”

  With a curt good-night to Neilan, Stuart half-guided, half-carried Fiona up the next flight of steps to the rooms two floors above the hall. Here Broc and Fiona had their private chambers, spacious quarters high in the tower. The view, Stuart recalled, over the glens and to the mountains beyond, was worth the steep climb.

  The vista was hidden by darkness now, the windows black. Stuart had been inside Fiona’s sitting room before, and had kissed her in it, but he’d never ventured into the room beyond that, her bedchamber.

  He took her there now, and Fiona did not stop him. The chamber held a tall bedstead with delicate posts—very modern—as well as brocade-upholstered chairs, a bookshelf filled with leather-bound tomes, a soft carpet, and hangings and paintings on the stone walls. Fiona had taken a cold room in an ancient stone castle and made it comfortable.

  The fire had been lit, its small heat already permeating the room. Someone had turned down the bed as well, and Stuart saw the lump of heated bricks at the foot of it. The efficient Una, he guessed, looking after her mistress while the men brawled at the supper table.

  Stuart shut the bedchamber door one-handed and clicked the key in the lock. “Lass.”

  Fiona turned in his arms, lacing hers around him. “Stuart.”

  Silence surrounded them as Stuart kissed her. Their lips met, parted, met again. Fiona loosened in his arms, her strength returning. She rested her hands on his back, and as he kissed her, she inched her touch down to his hips.

  Stuart broke the kiss. “Lass.” This time the word was tinged with laughter.

  “I missed you.” Fiona pulled him close. “I feared you gone forever.”

  “Nay.” Stuart kissed her cheek, her throat. “I knew I had to live, to be free. To see my love again.”

  “Love?” The word warmed his ear.

  “Aye.” Stuart raised his head and cupped her face.
“I love you, Fiona.”

  Fiona’s answer was an unintelligible gargle as she launched herself at him. Her next kiss burned, her lips parting his. Stuart started when she suckled his tongue, then he deepened the kiss, letting her do what she would.

  They were betrothed, in front of witnesses. No matter it hadn’t yet been proclaimed to the world or announced at the nearest kirk. Fiona was his, and Stuart belonged to her.

  Stuart slid off his coat, glad to be done with its weight. He unlaced Fiona’s stomacher and eased her bodice open. Both of them wore many layers of clothing against the cold, and they came off one by one, the two of them starting to laugh as they unbuckled, unbuttoned, and untied endless garments.

  Finally they stood together near the heat of the fire, body to body, nothing between them. Fiona traced his cheek.

  “I love you, Stuart Cameron. Thank you for coming back to me.”

  “Ah, lass, I couldn’t have stayed away from ye.”

  The next kiss erased all past sorrows. Stuart ran his hands down Fiona’s pliant body, rejoicing in the silken smoothness of her skin.

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed. Stuart climbed over her, and as the clock on the mantel chimed midnight, Stuart slid inside his love. His heart eased for the first time in a year, as Fiona’s eyes softened, and she welcomed him.

  Outside snow abraded the window, and inside, Christmas glided in amidst love and newfound joy.

  Gair and Padruig offered to escort Tavin and Neilan home the next morning. Broc sent them off after a hearty breakfast that Una, Donia, and Fiona managed to create between them.

  “He is a wise man,” Fiona said as she and Stuart waved off the small party. The snow had ceased falling and lay in drifts under a clear blue sky. “Padruig, I mean.”

  “So he claims.” Stuart sent Fiona a warm smile that trickled another frisson of desire through her.

  She felt very different this morning, washed clean, and thoroughly loved. Fiona and Stuart had lain together throughout the night, drowsing at intervals before finding each other again. She’d wept in his arms, realizing anew how close she’d come to losing him. Stuart had kissed away her tears and held her with comforting strength.