She swallowed to ease a throat crammed with thorny emotion and told her heart to stop leaping about in her chest like a mad thing. “You…you’re asking me to throw caution to the winds.”
His smile was so full of unconditional love, she wanted to cry. “I am. Not to mention I don’t want to spend the next few months sneaking around every time I want to hold you in my arms. We had quite enough of that back in the old days.”
He had a point. After this morning, how could she settle for a chaste courtship? “I don’t want that either,” she admitted reluctantly.
His eyes locked on her with an implacable purpose that she felt to her bones. “Will you marry me, Rhona?”
She stared at him while the silence extended. And extended. A sensible woman would say no, but the refusal wouldn’t pass her lips. Instead, her mind winnowed their long and agonizing history. Love. Tragedy. Loneliness. And now, at last, perhaps a chance that they could mend all the rifts and step forward into life as man and wife.
“It would take so much courage,” she murmured, her voice unsteady.
He extended his hand toward her. “You’ve never lacked courage, my darling. I love you. Do you love me?”
Tears rushed to her eyes and those butterflies collided hard in her stomach, but how could she lie? “Yes, plague take you, I love you.”
She watched the strain of years ease from his face. “And will you make a life with me?”
Ever since she’d been ripped so violently away from her home and everyone she loved – including, most of all, the man standing before her now, asking her to make an impossible promise – she’d done her best to stay safe and to keep her son safe. Accepting Malcolm’s proposal after all these years apart wasn’t safe at all. But perhaps it was time to seek some adventure and trust that her heart knew best.
Trembling, she took his hand. “I think you and I are going back to Dun Carron.”
His fingers curled around hers with a firmness that she knew would never fail her. She hadn’t seen that glittering light in his eyes since their days at Dun Carron. “Is that yes?”
The tears overflowed as she stepped closer on shaky legs. The truth, long-hidden but always present, surged up to find voice. “Yes, Malcolm. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”
“Oh, my beloved, that was worth waiting almost twenty years to hear,” he whispered and drew her into his arms for a kiss of invincible love.
Epilogue
Dun Carron Castle, Western Highlands of Scotland
Christmas, 1834
“I wish Patrick Ashley-Innes, my beloved son, and his bonny wife-to-be, Sheena Balfour, many joyful years together. May Patrick and his lovely bride be as happy as I’ve been with my sweet and biddable Rhona.”
From where he stood halfway up the staircase, Malcolm heard a general rumble of mirth from the people crowded into the castle’s cavernous great hall to celebrate both the festive season and Patrick’s engagement to the daughter of a neighboring landowner.
Over the last ten years, Christmas at Dun Carron had turned into a lively, cheerful occasion, not least because the laird and his family always made sure they joined their kinfolk for the holiday. This year with the announcement of Patrick’s forthcoming marriage, the day was doubly bright.
Malcolm tightened his grip on Rhona’s still-slender waist and glanced down into her glowing eyes. She’d brought laughter back to the castle from the moment she’d returned as his wife, a few days after he’d found her that snowy evening in Muirburgh.
On that long ago night, he’d been sure that he couldn’t love her more than he did. He was wrong. A decade of marriage had strengthened the bond between them, forged in youthful passion, tested through lies, separation, and grief, only to emerge stronger and surer than ever at the last.
“It’s a fortunate fellow who is possessed of an obedient wife, my darling,” she said, the voice that had once enthralled the theatergoers of London effortlessly rising above the hubbub.
Her impudent reply sparked another fond laugh from their guests. While Malcolm might tease her about her dauntlessness, he was delighted that his wife was brave enough to stand up for what she believed was right for her family and her people. His soul had always recognized her as a true equal. He had reason to be grateful for that courage and spirit. Without it, she’d never have survived to come back to him.
Rhona had returned to the glen to make her mark as his genuine partner, and while a few people remembered the old shame and scandal, Malcolm had made it very clear that an insult to the lady of Dun Carron was an insult to the laird. In truth, the clan had accepted Rhona as chatelaine and Patrick as heir more easily than he’d expected. The old Highland tradition of handfasting, where a couple married by making their vows before witnesses, meant that in many minds, Malcolm and Rhona were wed before her banishment from the estate.
“Och, how would the Innes ken anything about an obedient wife, my lady?” Old Billy McIntyre called out from below. “He didnae pick a lily-livered Sassenach, but a fiery Scots lass to keep him warm.”
Malcolm laughed. “Aye, that’s true, Billy. Rather, I’ll say fortunate is the laddie who married Rhona Innes and brought her back to where she belongs.”
A murmur of approval greeted that statement, as Rhona’s expression softened with the love that illuminated every minute of Malcolm’s life. “I belong with you, my dear husband,” she said, her words meant for his ears only. “I thank the Good Lord every day that you found me all those Christmases ago.”
Because Christmas wasn’t just a time for the clan to come together. It also marked the anniversary of the date when his life, that had gone so tragically wrong, took an abrupt turn in the right direction.
Malcolm bent to give her a quick kiss, feeling her lips soften under his. He felt giddy when she drew away, too soon in his opinion. Although he and his gorgeous wife had planned their own private celebration later, in the laird’s opulent suite of rooms in the south tower.
“So do I, mo chridhe, so do I,” he murmured and smiled into the flashing green eyes that had stolen his heart when he was a boy. A sideways glance from those eyes still made his legs wobble and his heart perform acrobatics, even all these years later.
The passing of time had hardly marked Rhona. As he looked at her in her stylish sapphire blue silk gown – her penchant for bright colours persisted, he was pleased to say – she remained the unforgettable lassie he’d fallen in love with. There might be a few more laugh lines, but the contentment in her expression would keep her lovely until her dying day.
He on the other hand was as silvery white as any mountain hare hopping across Ben Nevis. Rhona said she didn’t mind, and he had to believe her. When she looked at him, she looked with the eyes of steadfast love, so he supposed a few gray hairs didn’t matter much.
But tonight wasn’t about him and the woman he loved. Or at least not yet. It was about the fine young man they’d created together in a sunlit summer dell at Dun Carron twenty-eight years ago. Malcolm raised his glass of champagne toward Patrick and exquisite, golden-haired Sheena. The young couple stood a step above, holding hands and looking dazzled with happiness.
“My kinfolk, my family, my friends, I ask you all to wish the very best to the exceptional young man who has always made me Scotland’s proudest father and to the splendid lass who has won his heart.”
“To Patrick and Sheena,” Rhona said beside him, raising her glass, too. “May you both enjoy the same abiding love that has sustained Malcolm and me.”
Through the tide of congratulatory goodwill that ensued, Malcolm drew his wife close against his side and turned to her with a smile. He clinked his glass against hers. “And here’s to you, my one and forever love.”
Tears misted those peridot eyes as she whispered in return, “And to you, the man I’ve always loved and I will always love. Here’s to a lifetime of Christmases together. I’ll never forget the night you came back to me and made my life complete.”
Lost for wor
ds, moved, adoring, Malcolm leaned down and kissed his wife with lingering delight as their audience cheered to the rafters.
About Anna Campbell
Australian Anna Campbell has written 11 multi award-winning historical romances for Avon HarperCollins and Grand Central Publishing. As an independently published author, she’s released 27 bestselling stories, including eight in her latest series, ‘The Lairds Most Likely’.
Anna has won numerous awards for her Regency-set stories, including RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice, the Booksellers Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of Excellence (twice), the Write Touch, the Aspen Gold (twice), and the Australian Romance Readers' favorite historical romance (five times).
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The Christmas Rose
by Emma V. Leech
Chapter 1
“Wherein our hero is caught in the parson’s mousetrap.”
London
December 7, 1820
Felicity Bunting was five and twenty, and on the shelf. Everyone knew it.
Well, not any longer.
As of ten minutes ago, she had become spectacularly engaged to the wickedest rake in Christendom.
Suddenly, the dusty shelf she had resented for so long looked rather appealing, and she wanted to climb back on it and stay there, forgotten and unnoticed. For the first time in her life, the idea was positively blissful.
If she was honest with herself, Bunty wished she had organised this dreadful scheme, as everyone obviously believed. If she had been the mastermind behind this horrid scandal, at least she might have felt some sense of power, of having achieved her aim. Instead, she was mortified and ashamed, and wished she could curl herself up very small and hide in a corner… though the idea of buxom Felicity Bunting being able to appear small was laughable in itself. In a world where the ideal woman was slender, wraithlike, and prone to fainting, Bunty was tall, plump, and in excellent health. She bounced rather than drifted ethereally into a room, and would always prefer to laugh and have another slice of cake than sigh dramatically and appear mysterious and tragic. She was no Gothic heroine, yet somehow she had just made a tragedy of her own life.
And not just hers.
“It will be all right, Felicity,” her mother told her, though her gaze darted frantically between Bunty’s father and the unwillingly betrothed Lord Courtenay.
They had made a hasty exit from the party they’d been attending, only to discover the devilishly handsome lord on their doorstep five minutes later. Now, Mrs Bunting was huddled with her daughter on a loveseat, and Bunty thought her mama was trembling harder than she was.
“Though really, child, why on earth you had to make things worse by saying he wasn’t the man you’d wanted to trap….”
“Worse?” Bunty repeated on breath of laughter. It had a slightly hysterical tinge to the sound, so she snapped her mouth shut for a moment before adding, “And that was not at all what I said. I said the trap had not been meant for him. I never said I set the trap, did I? I’m as much a victim of this as he is.”
“Well, at least you’ll be married, dear.” Her mother’s voice held a faint note of satisfaction at that, and Bunty stared at her in outrage. Mrs Bunting flushed. “I’m sure he’s not really as bad as the scandal sheets make out,” she added in a rush.
Bunty snorted. She had followed the wicked man’s escapades for years now, and hadn’t the slightest doubt he was far worse.
Her husband-to-be—she winced—Lord Courtenay, was speaking to her father on the other side of the room. He radiated tension, as well he might, having just been trapped into marriage.
Of course, everyone believed she had arranged it. Why would they not? She was five and twenty years old and had never received an offer of marriage. Not one. There had been Mr Arkwright, three years ago. He had seemed promising, but then someone had sniggered rather too loudly over the fact that Bunty was a full three inches taller than him and she’d never seen him again. Not that she’d been heartbroken, far from it, but still….
She didn’t want to be a spinster, an old maid, a burden to her parents. Not that they would ever say as much, or even think it. For all they despaired of her, they loved her and wanted her to be happy. Well, so much for happiness. Oh, of all the men to trap into marriage, why had it turned out this way? Lord Courtenay, of all people. Just looking at him made her knees feel all trembly and weak. He was just so… large and vibrant and… powerful.
Well over six feet tall, he was perhaps one of the few men to whom she had ever stood close and not felt like an Amazon. He had thick, black hair, curled in unruly waves, and his skin was not the pale, insipid colour of most Englishmen in the winter months. Instead, it had a golden tint to it that only added to the impression of virile good health, and then there were his eyes. Lord Courtenay had eyes the blue of a Mediterranean sea, piercing and utterly swoon-worthy.
She sighed.
And now he would hate her until the end of time. Marvellous.
“Felicity,” her father said, a look in his eyes that suggested he believed she had run mad. If he thought she’d deliberately tied herself in marriage to this devilish fellow, she could hardly blame him. “The arrangements have been made. You’ll marry the day after tomorrow.”
Bunty swallowed and dared a glance at Lord Courtenay. His face was a mask. Her heart quailed. Lord Courtenay—Ludo to his friends—had always smiled at her up until now. She had never tried to fool herself that his smile had any meaning to it, past a faint sense of pity and a naturally amiable temper—well, amiable towards women, anyway. Ludo was a rake of the first order, a hell-born babe, a troublemaker, and a black sheep. He was the youngest son of the Marquess of Farringdon who had thrown him out years ago, and Ludo had responded by putting all his energy into blackening the family name as far as he might.
He’d done a spectacular job so far.
Yet, unlike many of the men she had encountered, he had never been cruel. Not to her, anyway. There had been no smirking or murmured comments for her to overhear and make her blush with mortification. He had always given her that smile that caused her insides to quiver and made her feel muddled and giddy. They had not met that often, but for Bunty it had always been a memorable occasion. She had carefully packed away the thoughts of that sensuous mouth curving upwards just for her, to be taken out and relived again and again on the days when she felt alone, fat, and unloved.
Now he’d likely wish her to perdition on a daily basis and never smile at her again.
Oh, well. Such was her fate. As her mother said, at least she was getting married.
Bunty tried not to cry.
One hour earlier…
Lord Ludovic Courtenay, youngest son of the Marquess of Farringdon, was bored. This was usually cause for concern. When Ludo was bored, bad things happened. To be fair, Ludo did not intend for bad things to happen, not anymore. He had been trying his best to behave himself for over a year now, but he simply appeared to be a magnet for trouble. If there was something brewing within a mile of his person, he would gravitate—quite unknowingly—towards disaster. It was a gift of sorts, and one he was beginning to wish he did not possess. Once upon a time, he had revelled in his ability to create chaos and turn any polite party into a re-enactment of Sodom and Gomorrah, or Gentleman Jackson’s boxing club. Recently, however, it had become a millstone around his neck. He was bored and tired and… lonely. Everything he had always enjoyed had lost any appeal. Brawling and causing trouble had long since failed to satisfy him. He supposed he must be getting old. A lowering thought. His ballet dancers and opera singers, and all the pretty ladybirds with whom he usually associated were lovely, and good company, and he was very
fond of them, but….
But.
Ludo sighed and snatched a glass of champagne from a server. He ought not be here. This was not the kind of event he got invited to, which was why he’d had one of his less disreputable friends smuggle him in. The cream of the ton were here, and so he was not welcome. He’d be evicted at any moment, no doubt.
“Ludo, what the devil are you doing here?”
Ludo looked around to see the cool grey gaze of the Earl of Falmouth upon him.
“Falmouth,” Ludo replied, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m on my best behaviour.”
Falmouth snorted. His wife, the countess, gave a heavy sigh.
“Oh, zhat is a pity, and it is such a dull party, too,” she said in her charming French accent.
Ludo grinned at her.
He liked the earl and his beautiful young wife. Unlike most others present, they were not the least bit stuffy. In fact, if the rumours about the earl were true, he was a dangerous man. Though close to two decades older than his wife, their marriage was a remarkable success. Tall, dark, and vigorous still, he was a striking figure, and his lovely French countess stared up at him as though he’d hung the moon for her alone. That the two of them adored each other was plain to see, and Ludo was struck by a jolt of something that felt remarkably like jealousy.
“Hunting, Ludo?” Falmouth queried.
“Hardly,” Ludo lied, and felt an unaccustomed tinge of heat creep up the back of his neck.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 24