Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  Hmm, she’d suspected as much. There was more to his promise of protection than simply gaining her hand. Protecting them was one thing, riding so far north, so far into “enemy territory” was another. Lowlanders very rarely, if ever, traveled to the north. But what other reason could he have for being here?

  “Alrick,” the marquess turned to one of the men who’d entered the inn behind him. “Get me lodgings and a place in the barn for you and the men.”

  Alrick hurried to his task, much the same way Alan might have done had he been so commanded. Leslie watched with distaste while the youngest of her brothers appeared at the marquess’s side and bowed low enough to kiss the man’s boots.

  “Thank goodness for your safe arrival, my lord,” Alan gushed, straightening.

  “You insult me, Harrison,” the marquess quipped and grazed his eyes over Alan’s wife, Elizabeth, who appeared at her husband’s side. “You’ve forgotten that we from the south are not only more civilized than our Highland neighbors, but we are as efficient with our rapiers as they are with their claymores.”

  Leslie doubted it. She didn’t like prideful, haughty men and sized the marquess up with a cool smirk that made both her brothers go a bit pale.

  “A display of your claim perhaps?” she asked, her eyes sparkling between thick blinking lashes. “Later, when the weather clears a bit, you could demonstrate how quickly your sword can cut through a tree.”

  “A tree?” The marquess’s complexion took on the same hue as her brothers’ an instant before he recognized her challenge and gritted his teeth at her.

  “A sapling, of course.” She chuckled, clearly mocking his lack of common logic. Her betrothed took no notice, dipping his gaze instead to her hand, which was gently patting her cleavage. She waited a moment while the urge to slap his face passed. “Few men can fell anything stronger.”

  He smiled, dark, dangerous, deliberate. “And how many MacGregors have felled you, my dear? I warn you, I can discern deceit.”

  Andrew stepped forward, taking offense. Alan stopped him; the fear in his eyes that their sister had just betrayed them was almost tangible. Leslie would slap him later on. Right now, she didn’t need their help. Look where it had gotten her.

  “No MacGregor has felled me,” she assured her accuser calmly. “But if you choose not to believe my words, I will not hold you to your agreement with my brother for my hand.”

  He regarded her at his leisure, coming to some conclusion that pleased him. When he took her hand and brought it to his lips she wanted to crawl out of her skin.

  “Fortunate for me then that I’m more man than any MacGregor.” He leaned in closer to her and said in a lower, thicker tone meant for her ears alone. “For I shall fell you and when I’m done, I shall fell you again.”

  He stepped away and winked at Elizabeth as he passed her.

  Leslie watched him follow Mr. Matheson, the innkeeper, toward the stairs, praying the way Davina had taught her, for the strength not to climb into the nearest boat and row her way back to Camlochlin.

  Chapter 7

  Night had fallen and there was still no sign of Finn. She squinted, peering out the window in her room at the inn. She doubted she would be able to see him if he’d been mad enough to brave the blizzard that had descended upon Glenelg. Everything, everywhere, slept beneath a blanket of pristine white… beautiful, silent, incapacitating.

  They were stranded. She wasn’t going home anytime soon. Her thoughts, as they had done since she left Skye, returned to Finn.

  Had it been him earlier? Now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she and Andrew were wrong. He appeared like an angel. Perhaps he hadn’t been real. Why would Finn come here alone? He may have threatened Andrew but he was a bard, not a warrior. If he made advances toward her in sight of the marquess, he would not stand a chance against the marquess and his men. Finn wasn’t fool enough to come alone. It couldn’t have been him.

  The sounds of Christmastide carols arose from below stairs, drawing her attention and pulling her toward the door. Oh, how desperate she was for song and merriment. She missed Camlochlin’s Great Hall. She so had wanted to spend Hogmanay with the people she had grown to care for. She’d been excited about first-footing, a custom involving being the first to step foot in a friend’s or neighbor’s home on the first day of the New Year. They would have brought gifts of whisky, shortbread, or yule cake. No one in Dumfries had ever visited their neighbors’ homes with such gifts. People in her hometown were distrustful of their neighbors. And with good reason, after so many of them had been betrayed by friends who’d turned in their Protestant brothers to win favor with a Catholic king.

  She smiled as she saw her mother and her sisters-in-law leaving their rooms and met them on the stairs.

  “It doesn’t look like we will be leaving for at least a few more days,” her mother said, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at the windows in the hall. “I’ve never seen so much snow accumulate so quickly.”

  “It’s the Highlands, Mother.” Leslie offered her a reassuring pat.

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware. And close enough for certain men…” Her face went red. “Or rather a man to follow and find you. Andrew told me that he saw Mr. Grant.”

  Leslie eyed her. Was her mother afraid Brodie MacGregor would come for her? Would he? Good Lord, no one had considered that. If he did come for her, blood would certainly be spilled. Leslie still found it difficult to believe that her soft-spoken mother had found companionship with such a harsh, cantankerous man. But Brodie, who likely matched age with the marquess, was a handsome man—and it had been quite sweet watching him offer his rare smiles to her mother.

  “You should have said yes to his proposal, Mother. I think he could have made you happy.”

  Helen Harrison blinked at her daughter, blushed all the way to her roots this time, and then continued on down the stairs at a quick pace. “The marquess should not have insisted on staying the night. We should have been long gone by now.”

  Margaret watched her mother-in-law and then shook her head at Leslie. “She refuses to speak of him. I think she broke her own heart by leaving him.”

  Leslie nodded. “She is stubborn and afraid of loving someone so much again.”

  “Aye,” Margaret agreed as they followed Leslie’s mother and Elizabeth down the stairs. “Is it true then? Has Mr. Grant arrived to steal you away?”

  No. No, it wasn’t true. Leslie wanted to say it. It was too dangerous for him to be here. She didn’t want him to come. But for some reason, she found it difficult to say. They were a mere day’s ride from Camlochlin. If anyone was coming to steal her away, he’d had enough time to do it.

  “The man Andrew and I saw was obviously not Finn. He isn’t fool enough to come,” Leslie said softly, sounding more dismal than she intended.

  “Men do foolish things when they are in love.” Margaret took her hand and patted it. “And Finlay Grant most certainly loves you. Honestly, some of us were surprised that it took you so long to figure it out.”

  “Margaret—” Leslie tried to interject but was cut off.

  “I mean, it is so obvious, Leslie. He sings it all with words that make other women wish he’d penned such poetry for them. I sincerely doubt he’s willing to forget the one who inspires him.”

  “He knows the consequences of following me,” Leslie admitted, unable to deny what he’d made clear every time he opened his mouth to or about her. She’d won his heart—and then she broke it. “I… ,” she tried to continue, stopping on the stairs to lean against the wall. “What would you have me say, Margaret? If you are aware of the pain I’ve caused him, why do you insist on holding it before my eyes?”

  Instead of answering her, Margaret’s gaze shifted subtly over Leslie’s shoulder, silencing Leslie from saying anything else.

  “Has my promised bride left someone behind in Skye?” the marquess asked, pausing on a step above them. “I was assured that none of you had grown attached to your Catholic hosts. Was
I misinformed?”

  Leslie’s mother stopped and turned to cast both her daughters a stern look. “They speak of a child, my lord. One of the chief’s grandsons, Adam. The boy is particularly fond of Leslie. He is three.”

  “Four,” Leslie corrected, keeping her eyes on the marquess. Was this what her life would be like with him? Being constantly held in check by his power to keep her family safe? It was never going to work. Her family had done nothing wrong and she wasn’t about to live in fear of false accusations. “I am particularly fond of him, as well. But I am not ruled by my heart. If you’re looking for a wife who cannot think for herself, who will be ruled by anyone, Catholic, Protestant, or pagan, then I assure you that wife is not me.”

  His smile deepened and he lifted his hand toward her face. “You’re going to please me, Miss Harrison. Likely when you’re least trying to. It will infuriate you, which will please me even more.”

  It infuriated her already. She inhaled a clean, steady breath and moved her face away before he touched her. “There are guests waiting behind you to descend into the dining hall.” She offered him a slightly victorious smile and met her mother at the bottom of the stairs.

  They entered the hall with the marquess and a few of his men behind them. The musicians had paused for drink, joining in conversation and laughter with some of the other guests. The innkeeper’s three daughters were decorating the large evergreen brought in from the snow yesterday and mistletoe was being hung from the various doorframes of the inn. Leslie did her best to avoid lingering beneath any.

  When she saw them, Honora Matheson, the innkeeper’s wife, hurried to fetch the Harrisons to their table. The marquess dismissed his men and joined the table as easily as if he’d been invited. He hadn’t been.

  Rather than speak to him, Leslie looked around the dining hall at the guests. A few more people had come inside from the storm and were settling in for dinner. Traders mostly, big men draped in furs. The only thing distinguishing them from the large animals that were said to roam the Highlands were their wares strapped across their chests and long claymores dangling from their hips. If the marquess could look at any one of them and, taking in the span of their shoulders, still believe that he could match a Highlander in battle, he was mad indeed.

  Her eyes drifted to the other tables around her. There were no other women in attendance save the innkeeper’s wife and daughters. And there was no sign of Finn.

  She breathed a bit easier and nodded to Honora when the marquess ordered two bottles of wine for the table. If he was going to remain sitting with them, Leslie would appreciate the spirits.

  “Tell me,” the marquess sat back in his seat and grazed his charcoal glance over them, “do Andrew and Alan make it a habit of abandoning their women to the company of strange men?”

  He laughed when Leslie glared at him. “I ask only because it concerns me to think of how many times you were left sitting, unattended, amidst a hoard of MacGregors.”

  She gritted her teeth at him, hating how he condemned them without knowing them at all. She was about to open her mouth and speak her mind when the innkeeper’s voice boomed happily throughout the dining hall and stilled her breath and her heart.

  “It might be colder than my mother-in-law’s heart outside, but God hasn’t forgotten us, and to prove it, He has sent the most skillful bard in all the realm to our doorstep.”

  The innkeeper’s three daughters, Jane, Murron, and Judith, clapped and sprang up and down on their feet, giggling and waving to the man stepping between the musicians. His smile, even beneath the shadow of the brim of his bonnet, was downright radiant and achingly familiar.

  Leslie nearly passed out. Finn was here. He’d come! And he didn’t look nearly as heartbroken as she thought while he waved back to the gels. Leslie didn’t dare look toward her mother or her sisters-in-law. She could feel their anxiety from across the table, but they would say nothing. If the marquess thought that a Catholic Highlander had followed her here…

  What kind of fool was he for coming? Oh, she would kill him before anyone else had the chance! What did he intend on doing? Did he plan on fighting the marquess for her? She begged God that it wasn’t so because she feared Finn might lose against the marquess’s men.

  “Traveling performers… ,” her newly betrothed mocked, snapping Leslie’s thoughts back to the present and her eyes back to him. “…none are lower. Keep an eye on whatever you own of value. His sort is known for being masterful thieves.”

  Aye, he’d certainly stolen Leslie’s heart without much of a fight from her. Oh, why had he come? There was nothing they could do without bringing tragedy to possibly both of their families. They had to let whatever they felt for each other go. But seeing him made her weak. It forced her to admit how much she loved him, wanted him. It would be difficult being snowed in with him and unable to speak to him, touch him. She’d left Camlochlin in a hurry because she wasn’t strong enough to look at him without seeing her unborn children in his eyes.

  Involuntarily, her gaze returned to his when he began to speak and the sound of his fair, melodic voice numbed her kneecaps.

  “They rob as many as they can and then they leave before the next sunset,” the marquess continued to anyone who was listening, which no longer included Leslie.

  “’Tis been a long, dreary day.” Finn’s dimpled smile flashed, vanquishing the gloom he spoke of. “Let’s usher in the night with whiskey, cheer, and memories of love to warm us.” His green gaze swept over her, taking her in fully before moving on.

  When he began to sing, Leslie knew by the effort it took not to smile at him that they were doomed if he stayed.

  “I’ll share with ye a tale of a lass that I once knew. Her hair, the color of sunset and her lips, sweeter than the morning dew.”

  Leslie resisted the urge to look up and study the hair color each of the innkeeper’s daughters possessed. What did she care whom he sang about? As long as it wasn’t about her. If the marquess suspected an affair between them, he would believe her converted and a traitor. He would not help her family.

  Whoever Finn chose to honor tonight was no longer her concern. Still, she searched her mind for any woman in Camlochlin with red hair and a delicate tongue.

  Judith, the youngest of the three daughters, laughed behind her hand at something Finn sang. Leslie had missed some of it. But apparently, this goddess he honored in song wasn’t so perfect after all. In fact, she was downright despicable.

  “She told me that she loved me, and with a kiss she made me blind.”

  Leslie felt her heart accelerate watching the way his lips puckered when he pronounced certain words, like told, or with, or loved.

  The tempo picked up and behind himt he two musicians kept up with his rendition as if they’d performed this with him several times before.

  “She took everything come morning, my gold, my heart, and even my plaid.

  But at least she left the whisky behind.”

  The women present, including her own kin, smiled at his charm. While the men, even the fur-clad ones, lifted their cups to toast their treasured drink and he who gave accolades to it.

  Of course, it would all end up about whisky.

  Leslie relinquished her guard for all but an instant and smiled, drenching her vision in the sight of her true love. His easy laughter, the shadow of dimples beneath his gruff, golden facial hair, the way his hair absorbed the candlelight when he swept it from his eyes. Finn might resemble something ethereal, but he was, above all else, a Highlander who appreciated a good cup of brew.

  His next song picked up with an even livelier tempo, and as Leslie sat and listened to him, she wondered how she would ever find happiness without him again.

  Chapter 8

  Finn raised his cup to old friends and to new ones inside the Red Kyeloe Inn. He’d always preferred making friends over killing enemies. The way he saw it, if a man had friends wherever he traveled, he’d never have use of a sword. Finn could kill if he must. He
just preferred not to.

  Until he learned of the man who meant to take Leslie from him. He hadn’t stopped thinking about killing James Douglas, Marquess of Dumfriesshire, since he left Camlochlin.

  He shouldn’t have come here alone but he’d preferred to keep the MacGregors out of any unnecessary wars, and Leslie’s kin from most likely dying in them. He realized his error when he arrived this morn just as the marquess and his band of men were riding in from the south. He’d stayed hidden to assess his situation and the chances of staying alive long enough to take Leslie back.

  He was no fool. The odds of any fight between him and the marquess’s twenty or so men were not in his favor. That’s why he’d reconsidered his earlier plan and sent word to his chief. He still intended on taking her home to Camlochlin, hopefully without bloodshed, but he needed his kin’s help. He’d come for Leslie and he wasn’t leaving without her.

  He had to do something soon. The snows wouldn’t last forever and Leslie’s party would be moving on. Worse, seeing her sitting at a table a few feet away, with the man who intended to make her his wife, nearly cost him his last shred of self-control.

  “What in blazes do you mean by coming here?” Andrew’s low voice cut across Finn’s ears when he bent over Finn’s chair.

  Ah, here was the golden question. Whichever way he answered would point to the same conclusion, so he decided to be honest from the start. “I’ve come fer yer sister.”

  Blood drained from Andrew’s face, but he managed a somewhat tight smile, as if pretending to speak about enjoying another merry tune.

  “How then do you propose to leave without finding a sword in your back or pistol fire in your guts? There’s no one here to help you. Don’t be a fool!”

  Finn downed the contents of his cup and cheered the next patron, who paid for his refill. “I’ve been making friends all night, Andrew. Jamie Matheson, the innkeeper, is an old friend of my father.” Finn nodded to the man drinking with him at his table.”In fact, one of his daughters, Murron, is named after my aunt.”