Once Upon a Highland Christmas (2 page)

 

Chapter Two

Craigleith Castle

F
IONA STARED OUT
the window with a frown, marveling at the ferocity of the wind-­driven snow. It had come on like an invader, rushing across the moor, over fences and outbuildings, before hurling itself against walls and windows of the castle. The stones shook but held fast.

Beyond the wall that surrounded the garden, Fiona could not see anything at all. It felt as if the rest of the world had been swept away, leaving Craigleith, and only Craigleith, on the surface of the earth.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and shivered as she leaned forward to breathe on the windowpane and rub a hole in the gathering frost. Her brother Iain, Laird of Craigleith, was out in the storm somewhere. He'd gone to take one of Annie's potions to Illa MacGillivray for her sore joints. Knowing Iain, he would stop to check on everyone between Illa's holding and the castle, Fiona knew, just to be sure no one had need of anything the laird could provide. He took kindness and duty very seriously—­more seriously than his own needs. He'd give away the shirt off his back if he thought someone else had need of it. She hoped he had not done so, not today, in the storm.

Iain would have gone out even if he'd known the storm was coming, refused to stay safe himself when others were depending on him. Soon, the ­people of Clan MacGillivray would have to do without him, for he had bigger responsibilities elsewhere as the new Earl of Purbrick. He hadn't said so, but Fiona knew he was worried how the folk here would manage when he'd gone south to Shropshire, in England.

She glanced over at her cousin. Elizabeth was dozing by the fire, bored and sleepy, a book open but unread in her lap, not worried about a thing. She had no idea how afraid Fiona was—­for Iain out in the storm, for an unknowable future in England, and for the storm he faced here, inside the walls of Craigleith.

She glanced out the window again, looking for her brother riding homeward, but the moor was empty. Truly, there was nothing to worry about. Anyone would be pleased and honored to offer her brother a hot meal, a dram of whisky, and a bed for the night out of the storm. It was Highland tradition to do so, be the man a stranger or the familiar figure of Laird Iain MacGillivray. Still, this storm felt different. The snowflakes glittered like crystals, and the wind seemed to be muttering something she couldn't quite hear, sighing a spell, wrapping it tight around the castle.

The door of the library opened, and Fiona leaped to her feet, hoping it was Iain. She felt her heart drop into her stomach at the sight of Elizabeth's sister, Penelope. Fiona watched her twenty-­year-­old cousin saunter across to the fireplace to warm her hands, sparing Fiona a single dismissive glance before glaring at Elizabeth.

“What are you two doing?” Penelope demanded, her blue eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Nothing now. We were casting love spells, but they didn't work,” Elizabeth said. She sat up and reached into her pocket, and held out another bundle of herbs, her palm flat under her sister's chin, the way one fed an apple to a horse that might bite. “Why don't you try, Pen? I saved a bundle for you. You wrap the herbs with a lock of your hair and say the words.”

“What words?” Penelope demanded, taking the bundle from her sister and turning it between her fingers suspiciously. She held it to her nose and made a face.

“You must say, ‘Show me my true love, and send him to me by Christmastide,' ” Elizabeth said eagerly.

Penelope turned her hand sideways and let the herbs fall to the rug. “What nonsense!” She ran a hand over her lush blond curls. “Why would I ruin my hair for that? I already know who my true love is, and he's here right now. I don't have to wait for Christmas.”

Fiona crossed her fingers behind her back. “Has my brother proposed to you, then?”

Penelope flushed and stuck her nose in the air. “No, but it won't be long—­and it will happen well before Christmas. Iain and I will be married in England next spring, and I will be the new Countess of Purbrick.”

Fiona swallowed more dread. Marrying Iain would also make Penelope the lady of Craigleith. Poor Iain, and poor Craigleith. Elizabeth bent to retrieve the little parcel of herbs as Penelope turned back toward the fire, shoving it into her pocket with a mutinous look.

Fiona wondered if the spell could send someone away by Christmastide too. She wished her English kin had never come to Scotland at all—­though she liked Elizabeth, who was far more fun and far less sharp-­tongued than her mother and older sister.

To hear Aunt Marjorie tell it, marrying Penelope was the smartest thing Iain could do. He was a Scottish laird—­a
mere
Scottish laird, and therefore far inferior to an Englishman in Marjorie's opinion—­but Iain had recently inherited the English earldom of Purbrick from his great-­uncle, and hard on the heels of that surprising news had come Aunt Marjorie and her daughters. They'd arrived at Craigleith Castle in a fancy coach bearing the Purbrick crest, and tumbled out onto the doorstep, complaining of the smell of the Highlands, the cold, the rain, and the ramshackle condition of the castle itself, demanding to see the Earl of Purbrick at once. It had taken some time to understand they'd wanted Iain.

When he'd appeared, Lady Marjorie and her daughters had dipped low curtsies to him. They had come to help, Marjorie said, giving Iain a smile that had reminded Fiona of the fearsome stuffed wildcat that graced the castle's ancient hall. Marjorie had promised to teach Iain all the English manners and customs he'd need before he went south to take up his new responsibilities. Aunt Marjorie had made the offer as if Iain had no manners at all. She had barely even glanced at Fiona when Iain introduced her. She'd simply declared that a good English governess would soon mold Fiona into a proper young lady, though nothing at all could be done about her unfortunate limp. It hadn't been unfortunate until Aunt Marjorie arrived.

Fiona did not wish to be molded into anything other than what she was, and she thought Iain's manners were just fine. In fact he was the kindest, smartest, bravest man she or anyone else at Craigleith knew.

Then over dinner on the very first night of their visit, Aunt Marjorie had suggested—­insisted, really—­that Iain marry Penelope. Penelope would be a helpmeet to him, and make the perfect countess, since she'd been raised at Woodford Park, the magnificent principal residence of the Earl of Purbrick. Penelope had batted her lush golden lashes and smiled sweetly at Iain. For a long moment, Iain hadn't said a word, but he was a man who thought carefully before he spoke or acted. He'd had the good sense and diplomacy to suggest that they must know each other better first, in case Penelope found that he was not to her taste as a husband. He'd said nothing of his taste for Penelope, kept his expression carefully blank, so even Fiona didn't know what he truly thought of his simpering cousin. Even now, a fortnight after Penelope's arrival, Fiona still had no idea. Iain was unfailingly polite, of course, but the expected proposal had not been made.

The delay had simply made things more awkward. At every opportunity, Aunt Marjorie had thrown Penelope at Iain, dressed up like a princess, batting her eyelashes and pushing out her bosom. It was a chilly time of year in Scotland to be exposing that much flesh.

“Iain's had plenty of time to propose, if you ask me. Maybe he won't,” Elizabeth said now to her sister. Penelope stepped forward, quick as a cat, and pulled her sister's hair.

“Of course he'll propose. Why would he not?” She sent a sharp look at Fiona, who had the sense to stay silent. “I'm beautiful and charming. Every man I meet falls in love with me. Iain will too. You'll see—­he'll fall at my feet and beg me to marry him.”

“When?” Elizabeth asked, moving safely out of reach before baiting her sister further.

Never,
Fiona hoped.

“Very soon,” Penelope insisted, drawing her fashionable cashmere shawl around her shoulders. “Put more wood on the fire. This miserable excuse for a castle is so drafty. There must be holes in the walls the size of my head.”

And her head was just as dense as any of the stones that made up the castle walls, Fiona thought. She crossed the room and added an extra turf to the fire, because guests were always treated with honor and kindness in a Highland home, even if they weren't particularly kind in return. In her opinion, Penelope Curry would be the worst choice of wife Iain could possibly make, and he deserved better—­much, much better—­someone as kind and gentle and brave as he was.

Fiona couldn't resist a test. “What will you give to Iain as a Christmas present, Penelope?” she asked. “Perhaps that will convince him you're the right lass—­lady—­for him.”

“A Christmas present?” Penelope looked shocked. “Do you do that in Scotland?”

“Aye, we do.”

“What will he give me?” Penelope asked.

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “Christmas is about
giving
gifts—­at least here in Scotland.”

Penelope raised her chin. “Well then, what would he like?”

“Something from the heart,” Fiona said, sure Penelope didn't have one.

“Such as?” Penelope asked, frowning now.

Fiona kept her tongue behind her teeth and smiled. If Penelope didn't already know, hadn't spoken with the man she wanted to marry enough to know what he liked and disliked, then Fiona couldn't—­wouldn't—­help. She was knitting her brother a scarf with wool she'd carded, spun, and dyed herself. He would make her something with his own hands as well, as he did every year: usually something carved from wood

The door opened again. Fiona looked up hopefully, but it was Auld Annie.

“Don't servants knock in Scotland?” Penelope said.

“Don't young folk respect their elders in England?” Annie shot back. She glared until the English girl looked away first.

Annie sniffed the air. “I smell meadowsweet, lavender, and yarrow,” she said, and pinned Fiona with a sharp gaze. “What kind of spell?” she asked in Gaelic.

“A love spell,” Fiona replied.

“For that one?” Annie asked, sliding her eyes over Penelope.

Fiona shook her head. “For Elizabeth and me,” she said, and Annie cackled.

“You're too young for that yet, lass.” She cast a look at the fireplace. “What did you see?”

“Nothing really. Sparks,” Fiona said, and Annie crossed to look into the hearth.

“Speak English, and put more fuel on the fire while you're there,” Penelope ordered, but Annie ignored her.

“Just sparks? Something brought the snow,” Annie continued in Gaelic. “I didn't foresee it was coming, and Sandy's elbow didn't ache the way it usually does when the weather's set to change.”

She got close enough to the flames to burn the arisaid she wore, and the fire lit up the muted colors of the MacGillivray plaid—­orange-­red, teal, and green. She pointed a boney finger at the hearth. “Ah! You see that string of soot, just there, hanging from the grate?” she said in English Elizabeth rushed over to look as well.

“Is it an omen?” Elizabeth asked. “Is it true love?”

“It means we're going to have a visitor,” Annie said. “Soon, too.”

Fiona looked into the old woman's firelit eyes, saw the flame reflected in the dark depths, as if it burned inside Annie, and felt the thrill of magic rush through her limbs.

“The snow will bring someone to our door,” she said, leaving the fire and moving toward the window. She frowned. “Iain has been gone since morning. I told him to hurry back, but it's near dark, and he's not home yet.” She looked out at the blank whiteness of the park. Fiona felt her heart rise in her throat. The storm was a bad one, and if Annie of all ­people was worried—­

But Annie turned to her and grinned. “No need to be afraid, Fiona. I see nothing ill happening to the laird, and Iain knows these hills like the back of his hand. He'll take shelter till the storm breaks, and no harm will come to him.”

But Fiona knew how easy it was to get lost on the moor in winter, to lose the track and wander off into the wilderness. If the landmarks were blotted out by the storm . . . Fiona refused to think of it. Annie squeezed her hand, her gnarled fingers remarkably strong.

“You can sleep soundly, lass. All will be well,” she soothed, her gaze boring into Fiona's.

“When will dinner be ready? Is there any chance of tea?” Penelope asked. Annie sent her a sharp look, but Fiona grasped the servant's arm before she could voice the rebuke Fiona knew was hovering on her tongue. Fiona wondered if Annie could turn Penelope into a newt or even a toad. Now that would make a perfect Christmas present for Iain. She hid her smile at the idea.

“Come, Annie, I'll help you and Seonag with supper,” she said.

“In England, ladies do not assist the servants,” Penelope said as they reached the door.

Fiona sent her a pinched smile. “In case you hadn't noticed, we're in Scotland, cousin, and likely to remain stuck here until all this snow melts again.”

Now there were cries of dismay and concern, and Fiona shut the door as Penelope and Elizabeth rushed to the windows to watch the storm rage.

 

Chapter Three

Craigleith Moor

I
AIN
M
AC
G
ILLI
VRAY PULLED
his plaid up around his face against the force of the wind. The snow was driving sharp needles into his skin as the storm grew steadily worse. Odd, he hadn't seen it coming. The day had started out bright enough, even if his mood wasn't. He'd ridden out across Craigleith Moor, lost in thought, and he hadn't been paying attention to the heavy pewter clouds boiling up over the hills, bearing down over the other side, until the sky fell on him and took his breath away.

His valiant garron plunged onward through the snow, heading for home and the warmth of the stable, but the castle was still more than an hour away, too far in this weather with the chance of losing their way in the snow-­blasted hills. Landmarks were disappearing, and the afternoon looked more like twilight. Soon there'd be nothing to guide him at all.

Ewan MacGillivray's cottage was closer, though Iain knew he'd find no welcome there. Ewan had been dead and buried since the spring, and the cottage lay empty. Still, it was shelter, and he'd be safe until the storm passed. He'd take that gladly.

There was one good thing about the weather—­it meant he had a reprieve. He had intended to propose to Penelope tonight, since he could see no way around it. He was only doing it for Fiona's sake, and because it was expected of him, not because he loved Penelope, or wanted her. That, he hoped, would come in time.

The storm howled in his ears, raged with a ferocity that surprised even him, and he'd grown up in the Highlands, spent twenty-­seven winters here—­well, twenty-­six, since he'd spent a year in England. He'd decided then that he'd take the Highlands, even in weather like this, over England any time, but it was no longer his choice. He had new responsibilities, and an English title he didn't want.

He set his heels to the garron's broad flanks and bent low over the horse's neck. “Not far now, lad—­just over the hill,” he said, patting the horse's shaggy shoulder, thickly matted with snow, but the horse shied, and Iain caught the reins and steadied the beast, looked to see what had frightened it.

Something lay in the snow, red on white. A wolf's kill, perhaps? But wolves were scarce in the Highlands, hunted almost to extinction. He pulled the plaid away from his face and looked more carefully. A fold of red cloth fluttered in the wind like a flag, and his heart stopped. He could make out the shape of a body, half buried in the snow. He slid off the garron, his heart in his throat.

Falling to his knees, he touched the icy shoulder under the cloak. The figure didn't move. He frowned, and turned the body over, bracing himself, expecting to find someone he knew.

He pushed the red hood away and looked down. His belly turned to water. He didn't know her, but whoever she was, she was beautiful. She was as pale as ice, her lips darkened to blue. Her eyes were shut, and long, ice-­tipped lashes lay frozen against her cheek. Dark hair framed her face, soft, like spun silk, held in place by a headdress of ice. She looked like an angel.

He bent closer, leaning in to check for signs of life. He felt for a pulse at her throat, found a faint beat. “Lass?” he said, but she didn't respond. The garron regarded the scene silently, blocking the wind.

Iain unwrapped his plaid, felt the wind bite through his coat. He wrapped her in the thick wool and picked her up, bundling her against his chest, but she didn't wake. She was cold as death already, he thought grimly. He scanned the horizon for the cottage. It lay half buried in the snow a short distance away, but he could see the line of the roof, the lone window peering at him with a one-­eyed squint. He began to walk toward it, knowing the garron would follow.

“We'd best get inside,” he said to the horse—­and to her, if she could hear him. He looked down at her face again, more like a marble tomb effigy than a living woman. “Where the devil did you come from?” he asked softly.

At the cottage, he kicked the door open and carried her inside. He carefully laid her down by the hearth and covered her with his plaid. She lay unmoving, ash-­pale and cold and all but lifeless. He tugged off her thin gloves. Her hands were delicate, her nails lavender blue with cold. He rubbed them between his palms, but she didn't wake.

He had to start a fire, get her warm. “Wait right here,” he instructed her, though she hadn't shown any signs of leaving. Quite the opposite. He bundled the plaid more tightly around her, and for good measure he took off his coat and laid that on top of her as well.

He put kindling in the hearth, found a basket of dry moss and twigs, and fed the fire until it caught, lifted, and glowed in the dark blue shadows of the empty room.

He hurried out to find the peat that would be stacked in the lean-­to, out of the weather. He led the garron into the shelter, rubbed the worst of the snow and ice away from the animal's thick coat, and pulled down some hay for him. Iain's teeth were chattering by the time he'd finished. He loaded his arms with peat and hurried back around the edge of the cottage, full into the jaws of the wind, gasping as he balanced the stack of fuel and opened the door.

The lass was still lying by the hearth, exactly where he'd left her. Her face was ice-­white against the bright colors of his plaid. He fed the fire and muttered a prayer in Gaelic as he laid his fingers against the pulse point at her neck again. The beat of her heart was fragile and faint, but it was there. In the dim snow-­light inside the cottage, he could see the delicate blue veins under her skin, like an egg held up to the light. The snow on his shirt began to melt, and he shivered. It was nearly as cold inside as it was outside. Iain turned to kneel by the hearth.

His fingers shook as he added more twigs, then the peat, looking over his shoulder again and again at the woman, willing her to live, to wait for the heat to reach her. He blew on the newborn flames, watched as they turned orange and the blaze grew strong and steady, crackling with life and heat.

He heard a soft sigh and turned. Now that was good sign, wasn't it? But her face remained still. He touched her cheek, but it was still more like marble than human flesh. “Lass?” he whispered again, but there was no reply. The ice on her hair and skin was beginning to melt, and the droplets turned to diamonds. She glittered in the firelight, beautiful and still, asleep, or beyond sleep.

He carefully unwrapped the plaid that covered her, and unfastened the cloak beneath. She was wearing a fine woolen gown, green and soft as summer grass, though the fabric around her neck was wet and almost frozen where the snow had crept down the neck of her cloak. Iain frowned, felt fear creep through him. How long had she been out in the storm? If he hadn't come this way, had turned aside and tried to make it home to Craigleith, or had taken a path even a few dozen feet to the left or right . . . he swallowed.

“I need to get you out of your wet clothes, lass, get you warm, check for injuries,” he murmured, though he knew she couldn't hear him. He cupped her head in his hands, checked her skull for bumps, or cuts, or blood, and found none. Her hair was coming loose from the braid that bound it, and the dark waves spilled over his fingers like silk. He took a breath as he reached for the pearl buttons that ran up the front of her gown from waist to collarbone. He unbuttoned them and opened the garment. She did not leap up and rail at him for his audacity. She remained still, and he let his eyes fall on the slopes of her breasts. Her skin was ice cold above the lacy edge of her undergarment. He gently lifted her, cradled her in his arms as he loosened the sleeves of her gown, then slid it off her shoulders and down to her waist.

He did his best to keep his gaze clinical, but whoever she was, she was lovely. He didn't doubt that some man was going out of his mind with worry at this moment. He glanced at her left hand. There was no wedding band, but that didn't mean she wasn't someone's wife. He ran his hands down her arms, checking for injuries. There were bruises aplenty, but nothing was broken. He felt for the pulse in her wrist when he reached it, and chafed her hands between his own again, scowling at the fire, willing it to blaze hotter. He laid her down, cradled in a fold of his plaid, and slid his hands over her ribs to a waist that he could span with his hands, finding no hurts there. Her shift was made of fine linen, tied with satin ribbons and embroidered in delicate whitework. She wore no stays, and she needed none. He swallowed and averted his gaze from the pale shadow of her nipples beneath the garment. He concentrated on sliding the gown down over her hips and along the length of her legs, noted that the sodden skirt was torn and stained with blood, and he gritted his teeth, fearing what he might find.

He drew a sharp breath at the sight of her left leg. A long, shallow gash ran along the side of her knee, bounded by dark bruises and raw scratches. The cold had kept the swelling at bay, prevented it from bleeding much. He sent her an apologetic glance as he ran his hand over the limb. She groaned softly, almost inaudibly, as he touched her injured knee, her brow furrowing. Iain murmured an apology for the pain he knew he must be causing her, but her head lolled again, and she made no further sound as he checked for broken bones. He sat back with a sigh and wiped his brow. Despite the cold, he was sweating. At worst, her knee was probably sprained. It would hurt like the devil when she woke up—­if she woke up.

Iain pushed that thought away. Her injury needed to be cleaned and bandaged. When she woke, it would start to swell. He had nothing with him for pain, hadn't expected to encounter anything worse than Illa MacGillivray's complaints about her aching joints. He'd left Annie's soothing salve with Illa, and he'd have to make do now, help the lass as best he could. He untied her half boots and peeled away the shredded, bloodied remains of her stockings. Where the devil had she come from? She's had a hard road of it. . . .

He covered her respectably with his plaid from thigh to throat and left her long enough to fetch a bucketful of snow. The wind outside was bitter, froze the perspiration on his skin with a single gust. He filled Ewan's old kettle and put it over the fire, not taking his eyes off her as he waited for the water to warm. He murmured an apology as he exposed her injured limb once again and dipped his handkerchief into the warmed water, using it to clean the wound. The fabric grew cold as soon as it touched her icy limbs. He worked quickly, then soaked the cloth again and bound it carefully around her knee. It needed a proper poultice, and ice to keep it from swelling, but he dared not chill her any further.

He frowned. She still hadn't woken. The fire had taken the edge of the chill off the room, but her limbs were waxen, her body unmoving ice. He added more peat to the fire and draped her clothing on the rope that was strung between the rafters, leaving it to dry. He checked her again. Her skin was still cold as death, her breathing shallow, her pulse a whisper under her skin. She still hadn't opened her eyes. He stroked her forehead, patted her hands, willed her to wake, but she did not.

Iain drew a deep breath. There was only one thing for it.

He swallowed hard as he reached for the ties of his shirt, began to undo them. “I hope you won't mind very much when you wake, lass. I'll have you know I'm not the kind of man who takes advantage of situations such as this, but I have to get you warm, and there's only one way I know of to do that. We've got the fire, and my plaid, and ourselves. The storm is terrible, or I'd find proper care for you, and proper company, but for now—­” He pulled his shirt over his head. There was no gasp of surprise or outrage at the sight of his naked chest.

He pulled off his boots, put them next to the fire, beside hers, and began to open the buttons on his breeches. What if she woke now, at this very moment, and saw a half-­naked man standing over her? No doubt the shock of that would warm her quick enough. He turned away, finished the task of undressing as discreetly as he could, and hung his garments over the line next to hers.

Naked, he opened the plaid and slid in beside her, gasping at the coldness of her body against his flesh. Under the covers he carefully untied the ribbons of her shift and slipped the straps of the garment off her shoulders. He worked it down the length of her body and away, taking care to keep her covered and to not look at what his hands were revealing. But his fingers brushed over her breasts, flitted across her taut stomach, skimmed her hips. He didn't need to see her to know she was beautiful.

Iain blessed the fact that he was a gentleman, even as he cursed the fact that he was a man, and she was bonnie. He tossed her shift over the line as well, next to her gown, then dove back beneath the covers, cold himself now. He suppressed a curse as he pulled her limp body into his arms. She was cold as death, the chill radiating from her limbs to fill his own, freezing him instantly. He gritted his teeth and wrapped himself around her, careful of her injured knee, surrounding her with his body heat, wrapping the thick softness of his plaid around them both. His teeth began to chatter in her ear, but she didn't notice. Would he wake up next to a corpse? He'd do his damnedest not to let that happen. He lay against her, willing the heat and life of his own body into her. He tucked her icy cheek into the crook of his shoulder and laid his fingers on the side of her neck, monitoring her pulse.

“You're safe now, lass. Live,” he whispered in her ear. “Don't give up. Stay with me.” Her heart kept beating, her body drawing warmth and comfort from his own, and Iain closed his eyes.

Beyond the sturdy stone walls, the storm raged on through the night, and slowly he felt her grow warmer, soften against his, soaking up his heat. She curled closer still, pressed her bottom into his groin, her back against his chest. She was soft, sweet, and her curves fitted perfectly to his. The last time he'd spent a cold winter night curled under a plaid with a bonnie lass . . . his body reacted as any healthy man's would, holding a naked beauty in his arms on a cold December night. Iain gritted his teeth and willed the erection away, trying to ignore it as he concentrated on keeping her warm and alive.