’Twas a girl, a young lassie. A few years older than Adam, aye, but no’ yet grown. She had pale hair, hanging in two braids on either side of her head, and she leaned on two canes when she walked. Her gait was irregular as if there were something wrong with her legs.
She was wearing the Mackenzie plaid.
Who was she? A child of one of his men? An orphan? A sign of the future?
Under the Yule decorations, dream-Callan took a step toward her, and she raised her arms to be lifted. She might’ve been too old to be spun around, but that didn’t stop him; she was obviously light enough that he lifted her without a problem. From the look of joy on her face, this was an embrace they both treasured and had experienced many times.
She’s his.
The expression of love on both faces—Adam’s, too—could leave no doubt. The lassie, whoever she was, belonged to that man.
Which means she’s mine, too.
Mayhap no’ yet, but was that what the angel had been trying to tell him? He glanced upward, but Fia was gone, leaving this scene of peace and happiness in her wake.
It was enough. Except…when he glanced down again, the dream had jumped, and there was more.
There was another.
A beautiful smiling woman with pale hair stepped from the mists, her hand resting gently on her swollen belly. She was dressed as befitted the lady of the castle, with a swatch of Mackenzie plaid pinned across her heart. She was not just welcome in the little scene but expected.
Her face lit with silent laughter, she scooped Adam up, pretending to stumble under his weight. Callan’s own face lit with a grin as he watched Adam laugh and hug the woman.
And then, the other man—the other Callan—stepped up beside the woman. He still held the girl, but he was able to wrap his arm around the beautiful woman and lower his lips to hers.
Real-Callan watched, unable to tear his gaze away. It was…lovely. So beautiful, the longing grew in his chest until he was unable to deny it.
This was what he’d missed. This comfort, this acceptance. This love.
He recognized himself, for certes, and Adam. But who were these others? The lassie he held in his arms, and the woman who held Adam as she returned Callan’s kisses? And the bairn she carried—was that…theirs?
If Fia had shown him this, was it to be his future?
If so, Aunt Agata was correct; he would survive and thrive and find love.
The perfection of the scene in front of him was enough to make his chest ache. Feeling tears gathering in his eyes, he turned away.
Uncle Jaimie was waiting in the solar.
Rubbing at his temples, Callan didn’t notice until he’d shut the door, and then, when his uncle spoke, he whirled around.
“Late night?”
“Nay.” Callan studied his uncle. “I had odd dreams.”
When the older man nodded, Callan realized his uncle was nervous. ’Twas hard to tell, unless one knew the man…but Callan knew him very well.
Jaimie had never wanted to return to Mackenzie lands; there was bad blood between him and Callan’s mother. Her death was somehow connected to the patch of frost-marred skin on Jaimie’s face—which he used to hide behind lank hair, but now he showed proudly—and the ruins of his fingers. But while he’d come to act as Callan’s regent, it wasn’t until his marriage to Agata that he began to heal.
They’d become a family, and he’d been the regent the clan had needed. Callan had only assumed the laird’s responsibilities a few years ago, but he split them now with his uncle, which is why the man was so at ease in this solar they still shared.
“Odd dreams?” The older man frowned. “Is aught amiss? My great-aunt Jean used to have a saying about dreams being reflections of one’s soul.”
Callan forced a grin and moved toward the desk. “Aye, but that old dragon had more than a few sayings, as I recall.”
As he folded his arms and propped his hip against the desk, he saw Jaimie’s smile flash.
“Aye, ye’re right about that, Callan.”
“Did ye need me for something?” Callan resisted the urge to rub his temple again. “Or just came to wish me a merry Yule?”
His uncle snorted. “Celebrations dinnae start until this afternoon. ’Twill be merry indeed, judging by how much effort Agata is putting into the thing. She wants to drag ye back into the world of the living, lad.”
Callan nodded. “She was here last night, giving me advice about my future. I suspect ’twas me pondering that which led to my dreams.”
But…what if it wasn’t?
What if the dream he’d experienced—the angel who used to be his wife, coming to him and showing him a vision of his happiness—was something more? What if it was a vision, a sign of the future?
What if that happiness was out there waiting for him?
But…who were they? Who was the lassie with the crutches, and the beautiful woman who’d held Adam as if he were her own?
And when would he find them?
His uncle was peering at him. “Is there aught I can do to help?”
Callan’s instinct was to say nay, to brush off the offer. But… His aunt’s words, and what she’d let slip about his father, were nagging at him.
So, his lips twitched a bit ruefully when he said, “I dinnae ken. I suppose I have plenty to learn about love and life after it.”
Jaimie immediately shook his head. “There is nae ‘life after love.’ Life is love, and loving is life. Fia is gone, aye, and ye’ll no’ stop loving her.”
“And I willae forget her, either,” Callan cut in, thinking of the way he saw her smile in Adam’s laughter.
“Ye should no’.” Jaimie leaned back against the chair, seeming to relax. “But that doesnae mean ye willnae love again.”
Apparently, he and Agata had been conspiring. Callan twitched a brow. “And how can ye be so certain?”
“Because…” Jaimie’s gaze dropped to his ruined hands, the fingers cut short at the last knuckle, thanks to the bite of the cold all those years ago. “Because I thought my life was over when I lost yer mother.”
Slowly, Callan straightened. “Because of yer hands?” he asked carefully, knowing his mother’s death had somehow maimed Jaimie.
“Nay. Aye—well, more than that.” His uncle shook his head, his attention on the hands he now curled into fists. “Because I loved her.” He slowly lifted his gaze to Callan. “I loved her, and ’twasnae until her death that I was able to see her as the self-centered, cruel bitch she was.”
His words didn’t bother Callan; he didn’t remember his mother but had heard plenty of stories of her manipulations. It was the way his uncle so casually admitted he’d loved Aileen Mackenzie, his brother’s wife.
“Ye loved her?”
Jaimie nodded. “I did, once. And I thought that was it for me until Agata came into our lives and showed me how much more I had left to give. Aileen was naught like Fia, but ye will love again.”
He’d loved Callan’s mother? The younger man shook his head, trying to make sense of the clues.
Yer father is a wonderful man.
They were speaking candidly, and Callan felt as if his world was changing around him with each breath. There was a question he needed to ask.
“Uncle Jaime…are ye my father?”
He knew he was holding his breath as the older man caught and held his gaze. Guilt and yearning warred in Jaimie’s dark eyes before he blew out a breath and looked away.
“I dinnae ken.”
The admission allowed the band around Callan’s chest to ease, and he exhaled as well. He wasn’t sure if he’d wanted confirmation his uncle—the man who’d raised him, the man he honored above all others, the man who shared his interests and sense of humor—to be his father. Or would that raise more questions?
But Jaimie, with a sigh, planted his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself to his feet. When he met Callan’s eyes, his chin jutted defiantly, as if daring Callan to call him to task.
“I loved Aileen, aye, but for a long time, dinnae see her for who she really was. I never lay with her when she married my brother, but ye…” He dropped his gaze. “Ye were born no’ a full nine months after their marriage.”
I could be his son.
Silence stretched between them. After a long moment, Jaime lifted his gaze, his expression hesitant.
He was worried? Worried how Callan would take the knowledge he’d slept with Callan’s mother all those years ago?
Callan’s chest squeezed with helplessness and, shaking his head, he stepped toward the man who’d raised him. “I dinnae care,” he assured the older man. “Ye’ve been a father to me in every way that counts.”
Jaimie’s dark blue eyes—eyes which Callan claimed, and Adam as well—cleared with something like relief. He gave a quick nod, then opened his arms, the way he had when Callan had been younger.
And he might be too old for hugs these days, and unused to embraces…but Callan stepped into the circle of the older man’s arms and hugged him back.
“I love yer brothers, Callan, but nae more than ye,” Jaimie whispered against his shoulder. “Ye are my son in every way that matters.”
Smiling, Callan pounded on the older man’s back. “And ye are my father, in my heart. Agata has always been a mother to me. I’m lucky to have both of ye, nae matter what the past held.”
“Aye.” Straightening, Jaimie rested his hands on Callan’s shoulders, smiling proudly. “And the future is all that matters anymore. So”—he gave Callan a little shake—“go. Go celebrate the Yule with yer clan. Relax today.”
Callan’s brow twitched. “And ye?”
“Bah! Ye ken I dinnae like the cold. I’ll finish up these contracts and then join yer aunt and the bairns in front of the hearth.”
Nodding, Callan strode for the door. But before he stepped out, he turned to his uncle once more. “Thank ye.”
“For handling the contracts?” Jaimie quipped as he slid into the seat behind the desk. “Or for finally confessing my deepest, darkest secret?”
Callan’s lips twitched. “For both. And for yer words.” The lesson.
Jaimie nodded as if understanding. “Aye. The future is what matters now, Callan. Yers, and Adam’s, and the clan’s. Ye’ll find happiness again, I swear it.”
The memory of the dream flashed in Callan’s mind. He saw himself, holding the lassie with the crutches, his arm around the beautiful woman who held Adam. They’d been happy. They would be happy.
He’d be happy.
The keep was bustling around Callan as he made his way across the great hall. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and ducked his head, hoping no one would notice him. He had plenty to think about and didn’t need a distraction.
Alas, it did not work.
“Callan! ’Tis good to see ye.”
The familiar—and unexpected—voice snapped Callan’s attention to the tall, broad-shouldered newcomer striding across the hall toward him. His auburn curls weren’t tied back but floated around his face as he pushed back the hood of his cloak and lifted a fist in greeting.
Callan’s face split into a grin, not minding this interruption as much as he might’ve thought. “Tavish MacLeod, as I live and breathe! Ye’re visiting for Yule?”
The men reached one another in the middle of the hall and clasped forearms heartily.
“Nay!” Tav shook his head, sending a spray of snow falling to his shoulders. “I’m visiting for Hogmanay, but decided to come early.” He grinned unrepentantly. “I kenned ye wouldnae mind.”
Tavish was the nephew of Aunt Citrine’s husband, Rory MacLeod. He and his twin sister were not related to Callan by blood, but that didn’t matter; they’d grown up together as much as the rest of the families bound by the Sinclair Jewels.
“Ye kenned correctly.” Callan glanced around, noting the bag Tavish had dropped and the men who looked like they might be sailors, spreading out in the hall. “Did ye bring Charlotte? Or just this moldy band of pirates?”
Tav’s grin slipped a little. “Just the lads.”
Callan peered at his friend. He had enough on his mind right now, but ’twas hard to deny that Tav looked…out of sorts. And Tavish MacLeod never looked out of sorts.
“Is aught amiss?” Callan dropped his voice. “Anything I can help ye with?”
Not that he could imagine how he could help. Although no one in the family ever discussed it aloud, ’twas commonly assumed that Tav had taken up the black kilt when his Uncle Rory had married, and now masqueraded as the terror of the Minch, the Black Banner.
Nay, there’s no’ much I could do to help a pirate.
But Tavish blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand across his face. When he dropped it, his wry grin was back in place.
“Thank ye, nay. I’ve just been…” He shrugged. “Charlotte was sent to Finlaggen earlier this year to marry John MacDonald. She’s no’ happy, and keeps trying to find a way out of the betrothal contract before she’s forced to marry the bastard.”
Callan winced. “Yer father can do naught?”
“Will do naught, more like it.” Tav’s smile looked more like a grimace as he slammed a hand down on Callan’s shoulder. “But dinnae worry. If Da willnae put a stop to this marriage, I will.”
“As her twin brother?” Or as the North’s most notorious pirate?
This time Tav’s smile was wolfish—or would it be shark-like?—when he nodded, obviously hearing the unspoken question. “As her brother, who happens to be a close personal friend of the Black Banner.”
Chuckling, Callan shook his head. “Best of luck to ye, and let me ken how I can help. In the meantime, I can see why, with our mutual Uncle Rory being at the Sinclair keep, and yer sister being at Finlaggan, ye’d be looking for anywhere else besides Lewes to spend Yule.”
Tav’s teeth flashed as he bent to scoop up his bag. “I’ll take that as an invitation to stay as long as I want?’
“Ye and yer men are welcome.” Callan’s eyes swept the hall. “Celebrations start this evening, and as long as they behave, yer men can sleep here in the great hall.”
“They’ll be the best-mannered pirates ye ever did meet.” Tav swept a courtly bow. “And now, for me…”
Chuckling, Callan jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Jaimie is upstairs in our solar, and I dinnae ken where the rest of the bunch is. The women have been gathered in their solar, speaking of sewing and arts and marriage and whatever else women speak of when they’re no’ rushing about, planning menus and celebrations.”
Tavish nodded. “I’ll pay my respects to yer uncle first.”
“Ye recall Beck and Nolan?”
“Two of Sutherland’s notorious band of bastards?” Tav and his sister might share an uncle with the Sinclair Jewels’ offspring, but it must be difficult to keep them all straight sometimes. “Trouble-makers, as I recall.” From the way he grinned, that wasn’t an insult.
“Aye. They’re staying in the room beside my brothers. There’s space there for ye if ye’d like to sleep somewhere besides the hall. Find one of the servants and tell her I asked for a hot bath brought to my chamber.” He eyed his friend. “Ye look like ye could use it.”
The other man blinked. “Ye dinnae mind me using yer chamber?”
Callan shook his head. “I’ve…been given a lot to think about this morn. I was on my way out of doors to clear my head.”
“Well, ye have my thanks.” Tav dipped his chin. “And I hope ye find answers out there in the cold. The snow has stopped, and ’tis a stark sort of beauty.”
“The best kind,” Callan agreed before sending his friend up the stairs and waving down a giggling maid to send after Tav.
Then he pulled down his own thick wool cloak and jogged down the steps to the courtyard.
With the hood pulled up, he managed to avoid drawing attention to himself, for which he was grateful. Now that Tavish was here, there was a part of him which whispered, A day spent in front of the hearth wi
th good friends and good food is no’ a misspent day. Callan could lose himself in the laughter and camaraderie and celebrations.
But as soon as he stepped out of the gates, he was glad he hadn’t listened.
He needed this. This quiet, this peace.
Taking a deep breath of the frigid air, Callan turned away from the village and pointed himself toward the forest that grew east of the keep. ’Twas not deep and dark, but rather welcoming. At least, he’d always felt that way.
He recalled afternoon walks with Agata before he’d grown enough that his duties and training kept him busy. The two of them would stroll across the dappled bed of leaves, pointing out colors and lighting, which would make lovely paintings. Most of the time, Agata succeeded in capturing the natural beauty, while Jaimie and Callan could only stand in awe at her painting ability.
The Mackenzies had to be the only clan in the Highlands that decorated their keep with more oil paintings than tapestries.
Stepping into the shelter of the trees, Callan pushed his hood off and tilted his head back, staring up at the pine branches. The imposing sentinels might’ve been cut for timber long ago, but he gave thanks to whatever ancestor deemed them worthy to remain standing. They offered shelter to animals, foraging for the villagers, and to their laird…peace.
The memory of the little girl, the one with the crutches who’d come out of the mist, flashed in his mind. The whole dream—from the moment the angel had appeared—had felt so ethereal…and the lassie was no exception.
Of course, today the landscape wasn’t ethereal; ’twas bright and stark, the sun reflecting off the new-fallen snow. But here, under the trees…there was a sort of otherworldly quality. The light dappled the ground, strewn with piles of long-dead needles, and the snow was less deep, blown into piles against the trunks.
Smiling, Callan pulled his cloak about him and strode deeper into the forest.
Why had he waited so long between visits to the woods? Even in the dead of winter, they were beautiful, reinvigorating. His sword slapped against his leg as he walked, but he knew he was in no danger. Nay, he had plenty of time to think now.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 6