A Stockingful of Joy (11 page)

"What better king for a Twelfth Night Queen than a bull who cannot be defeated, even in death?" she said. "Surely he is an enchanted king from some magical land." She held out her hand to the bull. Beside her, Parian sputtered a protest, and Hugh chortled with laughter, guzzling his drink.

Kenneth bowed low in acceptance, snorting and pawing the ground. He came closer and shifted until he stood between her and Hugh MacDonald. She could smell the stale animal hide, and saw his hand, long-fingered and strong, at his belt. He wore a red plaid, borrowed, she guessed, from the children; his own blue-and-green tartan would be recognized here as a Fraser weave.

"And who shall rule your hall?" Patrick asked.

She paused, and saw Kenneth's hand tighten in the shadows beneath the hide. She saw Parian scowl, and saw her uncle slit his eyes toward her, waiting.

"I rule this hall," she announced. "And I shall send the bull out to graze." She gestured imperiously, earnestly. "Go now. Please. Go!"

Laughter rose around the hall. Parian chuckled heartily, and her uncle slapped his knee and pointed, imitating her.

The bull moved like lightning then, tearing off his disguise. Shoving Hugh facedown on the table, Kenneth twisted the man's arm and pressed a knee hard into his back. Then he touched the point of his dirk to Hugh's neck. Patrick dove at the same time, wrenching Parian's arm behind him, and holding a dirk to his neck as well.

Catriona gasped and jumped to her feet, backing away. Throughout the hall, men rose to their feet, shouting as they came toward the main table.

"Hold!" Kenneth roared. "Hold! If any man comes near, your laird will die at the point of a Fraser blade! And his nephew will follow, cut by one of your own pups! Hold now!"

Breathing hard beneath Kenneth's restraining hand and knee, glancing wild-eyed at the dirk near his head, Hugh managed to nod. "Listen to him!" he bellowed. He swiveled his eyes. "I know you! You are a Glenran Fraser! By God! Catriona, you sent that damned brooch to them! And look what treachery!"

"Catriona did not invite me here," Kenneth said. "I am Kenneth Fraser of Glenran, come of my own will, with something to say to you, Hugh MacDonald, and to all the MacDonalds of Kilernan. First, though, I ask your pardon for the blade at your throat, for we do not trust one another well just now. And I thank you for your hospitality." He smiled easily.

"Hospitality?" Hugh choked out. "What do you want here?"

"Peace," Kenneth said clearly. "And promises. I wish to remind you of a paper pledge you signed long ago, when you agreed to end the feud between our clans. Let it be newly agreed in words between you and I, and witnessed by all men here."

"
Ach, "
Hugh grunted. "You know I must agree to that, on pain of death from the crown. I have no choice, whether or not you hold a blade to my throat."

"I will not draw your blood," Kenneth said, sliding a meaningful glance toward Catriona, "if you will listen well, and give your solemn promise before all men here."

"Promise what?" Hugh growled.

Watching, Catriona fisted her hands at her sides, wondering what Kenneth meant to do. She glanced from Kenneth to Hugh, then from Patrick to Parian, who looked ill. Kenneth looked at her once, his dark eyes full of storm and determination. His presence, his intensity, swept through her like the pull of a lodestone.

"Tell me, Hugh," he said. "Who owns Kilernan? Who holds it by right of the Regent of Scotland?"

Hugh was silent, his face florid, his breath coming in gasps. "Catriona," he growled at last. "It is hers by right."

"And you have kept the property well for her, for which she surely thanks you. But now, I think, she is ready to manage it with her own hand and her own judgment. Tell her."

"A bargain," Hugh gasped out. "If Catriona promises to wed the man I choose for her, I will make this pledge. Kilernan must remain a stronghold for Clan Donald."

Catriona sucked in a breath and stared at Kenneth. His mouth tightened. "Catriona?" he asked, without looking at her.

She had no choice. For the sake of Kenneth's life after this moment, for the children, for Kilernan, she had no choice. "I—I promise," she murmured.

"Then I bestow Kilernan back into your keeping, now that you are old enough," Hugh said. "Before all men here, I pledge this," he added when Kenneth pressed the dirk point to his neck.

Kenneth looked at the silent, frowning Highlanders gathered nearby. "Catriona MacDonald is the owner of this castle. Your loyalty is owed to her now. She is her father's daughter, brave and strong and fair-minded. Follow her always, and show her your support."

Catriona watched him, tears glinting in her eyes. Kenneth Fraser had fulfilled the promise of the snow rose, but the price was high: she would gain Kilernan, but she must lose the man she loved.

He barely glanced at her as he looked down at Hugh. "Now, MacDonald," Kenneth continued. "The Twelfth Night after Christmas is the Epiphany, when three wise kings offered gifts and homage to a child in a manger. Will you honor that by offering gifts and protection to a few children in need?"

"The MacGhille children," Hugh muttered. "Catriona holds Kilernan, and she has the right to bring the waifs inside its walls if she wants." He groaned, a low, sober sound. "Let me up, Fraser. I will not come after you, nor send my men."

"Then I will trust you." Kenneth let go and stepped back, though he held the blade steady. Beside him, Patrick slowly released Parian. Hugh muttered to him, and laid a restraining hand on his arm. Catriona sensed no threat there, though; Parian looked as if he might faint or be sick, either from strong drink or the shock of being bested so easily.

Kenneth glanced at Catriona. "You wanted Kilernan taken without bloodshed," he said softly. "It is done. You wanted a home for your young cousins. That, too, is done. Hugh MacDonald will not go back on his word to you. Every man here will hold him to his promise." He gestured toward the men who stood watching them.

"Uncle?" Catriona asked. "Will you forget this pledge later, when it suits you?"

Hugh wiped sweat from his brow. "I gave you my word before a host of men, on a holy day," he muttered. "I will not break that. I have pride and a heart, girl, though you do not think so. Kilernan is yours, as it always was. I only kept it until you found a strong husband. Parian will do well by you."

Catriona hesitated, dreading what she must do next. "Thank you, Kenneth Fraser. Thank you—" Her voice trembled uncertainly. "Go now," she urged him. "Please. You must leave."

Hugh watched them. "You know this Fraser!"

"I know him well," she said softly. "Let him return to his home in peace, Uncle." Hugh scratched his head, grumbling indistinctly.

"If I must go," Kenneth said, looking at her evenly, "let me first ask a favor of the Twelfth Night Queen. She may grant requests on the last night of the Yuletide season."

Catriona inclined her head, determined to answer whatever he asked her with calm and pride, though her breathing grew quick. She knew that Kenneth must leave here, yet she longed for him to stay, however foolish the thought.

"What is your request?" she asked.

"All I want," he said, "is to know the queen's dearest wish." He stepped toward her. "Then I will leave."

Her heart surged. She watched him, and sensed the hush all around her. She drew a quivering breath. "All I truly want," she murmured, "is for you to be my luck, and my own. Forever." She looked up at him through a glaze of tears, then glanced away. "But that is just a foolish wish."

"Wishes are often blessings." He moved closer. "Catriona MacDonald, listen to me well." He tipped her chin up with a finger. "I am your luck, and I am yours."

"Holy saints," Hugh mumbled. "Look at that."

"And if I leave here," Kenneth continued in a whisper so low only she could hear it, "I will never give up. I will be back for you."

A hot tear slid down her cheek. She took his hand and turned to her uncle, who watched her with a stunned expression.

"I choose my king for this night," she said.

"You would choose him for your husband," Hugh murmured.

"I would," she said softly. "But I made you a promise."

Hugh sighed. "I am no fool, girl. I know a brave, good man, a man to respect, when I meet one—though he be a Fraser." He rubbed his whiskery jaw. Then he looked at Kenneth. "Would you hold Kilernan for MacDonalds, or Frasers?"

"Kilernan can be a fortress of truce between our clans," Kenneth answered. "The pledge of peace will always hold here."

Hugh nodded brusquely and scratched his head. "Catriona, wed this man." He grinned sheepishly. "Do what I say, girl. It is a wise choice for all of us."

She smiled. "I will, Uncle."

Parian sputtered. "Hugh—"

"Hush up," Hugh snapped. "I have other nieces."

Catriona looked at Kenneth through joyful tears. He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his lips gentle, his breath full of life. "I told you I would bring you luck," he said.

"Ah, and you did," she answered, and laughed softly. "You surely did."

"The star!" A murmur rose among the men gathered in the hall. "The Epiphany star!" The crowd parted to admit one of the small guisers, who walked toward the main table, carrying a candle.

Kenneth put his arm around Catriona as they watched the final ceremony of Twelfth Night. Catriona rested her head on his shoulder and let the tears glide freely down her cheeks.

Mairead came toward them, her white robe trailing, her small hands clasped around a thick, blazing candle. The light pierced the shadows in the dimly lit hall as she held the flame high. She lifted her face to the golden light, and her eyes, blind and seeing, glittered like pale jewels.

"Twelfth Night is the last night of the Yuletide season," Catriona murmured. "It is the day of hope, the day when we truly realize all the blessings of the year to come."

"There will be many years full of blessings for us, love."

"Is it so?" she asked, her tone light.

"I pledge that it will be so," Kenneth whispered. "Here. This belongs to you." He lifted his hand and pinned the snow rose brooch to the shoulder of her plaid. Then he kissed her, while the child circled the light of promise and hope around them.

by MARY JO PUTNEY

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London, 1818

It was Emma Stone's annual day for sadness. She returned to her room after an exhausting session of trying to drum manners and mathematics into her charges, and found a letter waiting for her. The heavy, expensive paper and Vaughn seal were instantly recognizable, as was the exquisite script that said, "Miss Emma Vaughn Stone."

She picked the letter up with a sigh, not yet ready to open it. There was no need to, really. Inside, in the handwriting of the Duchess of Warrington's secretary, would be an invitation to the annual Vaughn Christmas gathering at Harley, the family seat. Two weeks of talk and laughter and celebration among dozens of Vaughns of varying degree, with the duke and duchess presiding over the festivities.

Nostalgically she thought back to happier days when she'd attended every year. Troops of young cousins galloping through the house and grounds. Older Vaughns fondly remembering their shared past. Feasts that made the tables groan. The candlelit Christmas Eve service in the castle chapel. She could almost smell the roasting chestnuts…

Face set, she broke the seal and looked inside. The invitation was exactly like all the others, even though it had been over ten years since she had attended one of the gatherings. Ten long years since her parents had died and left Emma impoverished.

Her mother had been a second cousin of the duke, and every year she had brought her husband and daughter to Harley for Christmas. Emma wondered how much longer it would be until she was dropped from the list. Even if she could take a fortnight off from her governess position, she would not go to Harley. She was too poor, too insignificant, to belong in that gilded world anymore.

It hurt to receive the invitation every year and know that she could not attend. It would hurt even more when the Warringtons finally stopped inviting her. The annual invitation was her last fragile connection to her happy childhood.

Unbearably restless, Emma caught up her cloak so that she could walk through the London streets. For the next few hours, she'd think of the past, a self-indulgence she allowed herself only once a year. By the time she returned to the Garfields' house, she would be tired enough to sleep, if she was lucky.

Giving silent thanks for the fact that it was her half day off, she went out into the raw December afternoon. As her long strides carried her east along the Strand, she thought of those distant golden holidays, and wondered what had happened to her grand relations. There was quiet young Lord Brandon, known as Brand, who was son and heir to the duke. He had two younger sisters within a few years' age of Emma. And Cecilia, who like Emma was a distant cousin. Unlike Emma, she was wealthy and beautiful.

And, of course, there was Anthony Vaughn, Brand's best friend, another distant cousin who would someday be Viscount Verlaine. Five years older than Emma, Anthony had been the leader of the younger generation, outrageously handsome, and sometimes merely outrageous, but so charming that everyone always forgave him. At Emma's last Christmas at Harley, it had been obvious that he and Cecilia were heading for a match. They'd made a stunningly attractive couple. Emma had come across them kissing in a corner once. She'd made an embarrassed retreat, unnoticed by the young lovers.

Actually she had usually gone unnoticed, being plain and shy. She'd never minded that. What mattered was that she had belonged.

Emma detoured to the Covent Garden market to buy herself a nosegay of flowers. It was an expensive luxury at this season, but one that she permitted herself now and then. To always watch every penny was bad for the soul. She loved flowers, and this small bunch of chrysanthemums would brighten her drab room for days.