by Caroline Lee
His palms itched to reach for her, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her. So he curled his hands into fists and shoved them onto his own hips, mimicking her stance from just a few moments before. “What are ye planning, lass?”
“I’m telling my Da nae more. I’ll no’ allow him to betroth me again, no’ to a man I’ve never met, no’ to yet another Henry who’ll die before our wedding is planned.”
Brohn winced.
“I’ll wait until after tonight’s celebration, because hopefully he’s busy explaining his intentions to yer mother right now, but I’m going to tell him he’s no’ the only one who deserves happiness. And then, I’m going to march right back to ye and demand ye marry me. What do ye say to that?”
Aye! St. Odran help him, he’d say, “Aye!” to such a bold proposition.
Saints above, but he loved this woman.
But he swallowed down the words. Instead, he said, “Do ye think yer father would allow ye to marry a man such as me—”
“He will, ye daft clot-heid, because I love ye! I gave myself to ye, and I’ll do it again, because I love ye, Brohn Oliphant!” She nodded firmly. “And I’ll keep repeating it until I get it through that thick skull of yers!”
After one final nod, she turned on her heel and marched off.
And Brohn sank down to the bench, one hand splayed across his chest, not sure if his heart was pounding in terror…or gratitude.
Chapter 7
It wasn’t their typical Christmas celebration, but it was still nice.
Of course, Nessa had to admit she’d already had quite an interesting holy day, what with the droning Mass that morning in the hall—Father Ambrose stuck with the Latin liturgy, which meant no one besides Malcolm understood him, so it was terribly boring—and the, you know, sex in the afternoon.
She realized she was smiling at the memory and didn’t bother caring. Aye, she was still irritated with Brohn, but she was determined to get her way in this.
She would not be married to some distant Henry. And hopefully, once he realized that, he’d step up to her father and ask to marry her instead.
“More ale, wench!” her father boomed, laughter in his voice, as he waved his empty flagon in the air.
Taking her cue, Nessa giggled and hurried across the room with the pitcher, fulfilling her role as the ale wench this evening.
Most of the servants had gone to their homes in the village, and the few who remained in the castle were currently getting happily drunk and roasting chestnuts down in the kitchens with Cook. Supper had been a simple stew, since Moira had decided to save the cow—which Cook had been feeding and tending so long—for the celebration with the rest of the clan, which would happen as soon as the snows cleared.
With the servants celebrating Christ’s Mass their own way, Nessa’s family—and Moira’s—were left to their own devices. The housekeeper had arranged for some delicious snacks and treats, and now they were all lounging around the warm fire while the snow fell outside.
And Nessa had been designated the ale wench.
“I need more wine!” Aunt Agatha declared, frowning down at her empty cup.
“Ye’ll have to get it yerself,” Nessa called cheerfully as she poured for her father. “I’m in charge of only ale!”
“Bah! Ye’d make a crippled auld woman hobble to get her own wine?”
Nessa waggled her brows. “Apologies, Aunt Agatha, but I’m busy!” she laughed evilly.
The old woman, already having enjoyed a cup of the wine, threw her forearm across her eyes and moaned dramatically. “Oh, woe is me! My last chance to celebrate Christ’s Mass here on earthly firmament, and my descendants—wicked, wicked children that they are!—willnae help a poor auld woman!”
Around her, her wicked descendants were chuckling.
“Did she no’ claim last year was her last chance to celebrate the holy day with us, Mal?” Alistair asked thoughtfully.
Malcolm was grinning as he looked up from where he’d been showing young Liam a trick with a ball and some string. “Och, aye! Do ye no’ remember? She makes the same claim every year! Each year is her last among the living, for certes.” He nodded to his son. “She says the same thing each year.”
“I dinnae want Great-Aunt Agatha to die,” Liam said with a frown.
His mother Evelinde was keeping an eye on the baby, who was almost one, while she patted her rotund belly. “She’s yer great-great-aunt, honeybun,” she muttered distractedly.
The little boy nodded eagerly. “She’s great!”
“Aye, and she’s no’ wrong!” Agatha snapped in irritation, frowning at all of them. “One year ‘twill be my last here on Earth! So I’ll just keep saying that until I’m right, eh?”
The reminder sobered them all right up.
Father Ambrose, whose cheeks were rosy from the celebrations, lifted his flagon in salute. “Ye are a wise woman, Agatha Oliphant, and blessed are those who’ve learned from yer wisdom over the years.”
The old woman peered at him. “Ye’re no’ going to go mis-quoting Bible verses at me, are ye?”
“Me?” The priest pretended shock. “I would never! For does the Scripture no’ tell us: Ye cannae just make up things and claim they came from legitimate sources, for ‘tis the wrong way to win an argument?”
As Malcolm and Evelinde chuckled, Agatha narrowed her eyes at the priest.
“I dinnae ken,” she hissed. “I’ve certainly never learned that verse, but ye seem full of these verses nae one’s ever read before.”
Father Ambrose shrugged innocently, his green eyes twinkling. “I think it all sounds good. Holy words are all around us, if ye ken where to look.”
Nessa’s best friend Lara, Brohn’s sister and Alistair’s wife, began to giggle. “Ye mean like, ‘Women should remember to wipe front to back after they shite?’ ”
Her husband, who was sitting beside her on the bench, nodded seriously. “Or, ‘Cast no’ three lines when ye have but two lines, ye clot-heid.’ ”
“Solid advice!” Father Ambrose protested, as the couple began to chuckle.
As Nessa moved to refill Malcolm’s ale, she smiled at her friend. Lara’s stomach wasn’t as round as Evelinde—much less Fiona’s and Merewyn’s—but Nessa knew her best friend was pregnant. ‘Twas unlikely she’d give birth before her sisters-in-law, and that meant—unless the others all had daughters—‘twas unlikely Alistair would become the next laird.
But seeing him so relaxed and happy, his arm around his wife and his empty flagon resting on his knee, Nessa knew it didn’t matter. He’d given so much of himself to the clan over the last years, and ‘twas good to see him enjoying life.
She sent a grin to Lara, knowing her friend was entirely the reason for this change in her once-serious brother.
Beside her, Malcolm muttered, “Where’s the wine? I’ll fetch it before Aunt Agatha bursts with irritation.”
Nessa was about to tell him she’d do it, when Brohn stepped into their little circle, carrying the pitcher. Without a word, he crossed to Agatha and refilled her cup, then did the same to his mother’s.
Watching him, Nessa couldn’t help but admire how fine he looked in the firelight. He was braw, aye, and those eyes of his could make a lass go all gooey inside, even if she hadn’t been underneath him just that afternoon, her legs wrapped around those lovely naked buttocks.
But ‘twas more than his appearance. He was quiet and unassuming. But he moved with a sense of certainty, confident in the knowledge he did the right thing.
Of course, if he’d been a little less confident in that, we might already be married!
Stubborn idiot.
As he straightened from pouring his mother’s wine, his eyes met Nessa’s. They both froze for a moment, then his lips curled into a secret sort of smile.
She wondered what that was about.
“Oh, look!” Evelinde suddenly whispered.
The spell was broken, as everyone turned to see what the woman was pointing at
near the hearth.
Wee Tomas had been playing happily with his blocks, with their massive, shaggy dog Nanny laying between him and the flames. But now, the little boy had pulled himself up to stand, and the dog had stood as well, nudging him out onto the rush-covered floor, away from the hearth.
Smiling, Nessa knew she wasn’t the only one watching in anticipation. Tomas could often be seen toddling beside Nanny, one chubby fist gripping the dog’s fur…but he hadn’t walked on his own yet.
Right now, though, he had a determined look on his face, his attention focused on his father and older brother.
Malcolm grabbed Liam’s hand and dropped to his knee in the center of their little circle. “Come along, Tomas. Ye want to play with us, aye?”
Liam held up the little stick-and-ball game, waving it enticingly. “Come play, little brother. Come here!”
The baby babbled something, then took a step, shifting his hold on Nanny. The dog began to step too, but Malcolm hissed, “Stay, Nanny,” under his breath, and the animal froze.
“Come to Da, Tomas,” he crooned, his gaze on his youngest son.
And then, Tomas did. One pudgy leg thudded onto the floor, then the other, and then he let go of the dog and was walking all on his own.
When he fell into Malcolm’s arms, and his father lifted him high in the air in celebration, Nessa wasn’t the only one cheering. Around her, their family was laughing and calling encouragement.
She met Brohn’s eyes, and this time, they both smiled at having witnessed something so special and sweet.
Laughing, Evelinde pushed herself to her feet to wrap her husband and sons in a hug, and Malcolm beamed happily. Nessa pulled the pitcher against her chest and watched the happy family.
Aye, they were happy. All of her brothers were happy, and it was truly miraculous to see. This time last year, none of them besides Finn had any interest in marriage, and now look at them! Malcolm would’ve happily spent the rest of his life buried in his books and inventions, and now he had two sons and another babe on the way. And Alistair was finally relaxing for the first time she could recall.
Her other brothers, as well, were more than content…they were happy. And she wanted that happiness too. She was tired of being thought of as a curse, tired of being avoided just because she had to “do her duty.”
Tonight, she would tell Da her real feelings.
And tomorrow, she’d start convincing Brohn to marry her, by God!
“Och, Moira!” Father Ambrose called, “Tell us about the weeds ye have hanging up all over the place, will ye?”
Chuckling, the plump housekeeper shook her head. “ ’Tis no’ weeds, Father! ‘Tis mistletoe.”
Agatha nodded, her cup of wine clutched in both hands before her. “Aye, hanging herbs seems to be all the rage. That exasperating healer keeps sneaking into my room and hanging rosemary and sage. She says it has healing properties, but I am no’ sure I believe her.”
“Merewyn just wants to help ye, Aunt,” Alistair pointed out.
“By making sure I get slapped in the face with dried plants? Bah! I dinnae ken what purpose they serve, other than making the place smell nice.”
Nessa smiled innocently. “Mayhap she’s passing judgement on yer personal aroma, Aunt.”
“Ye’re saying she thinks I smell?”
Da winked. “Who do ye think asked her to provide ye with so many bundles of sweet-smelling herbs, ye stubborn auld dragon?”
Aunt Agatha joined in the laughter, although she did waggle her finger and call out something about, “Respecting yer elders,” when she calmed down a bit.
Moira was smiling when she patted the air in front of her to quiet everyone. “Would ye like to hear the reason I hang mistletoe?”
“Och, aye!” the laird drawled with a grin, throwing his arm across the back of her chair. “And tell them what it means.” The way he waggled his brows left no one confused about what he’d been doing under the mistletoe.
Lucky devil.
Wait. Ew! Nessa did not need to think of her father kissing…and doing more…under the mistletoe or otherwise.
“Mistletoe grows to the south in England. It blooms in the winter, and ‘tis no’ a weed, but a sort of parasite plant.”
“What’s a pair of sights, Da?” Liam whispered.
Grinning, Malcolm explained, “A parasite is an animal which lives off another. I’ve read about a few plants like that, but havenae seen anything about mistletoe.”
Moira was nodding. “As I said, it grows in England, where ‘tis revered as a plant with special powers. Before the story of Christ came to our shores, druids used it in ceremonies, and it still is thought to have a powerful magic by many people. My grandmother was English—dinnae hold it against me, aright?” she added, to many chuckles, “And she brought the dried bundles when she married my granda. I’ve had to replace the little wax berries—I make them new each year—but I pack it away carefully to be enjoyed another year.”
“What kind of magic?” Liam blurted, just as Lara called out, “Tell them the legend!”
The housekeeper shifted in her seat, placing her flagon on the table beside her, and leaned forward, lowering her voice to create the proper atmosphere.
“Long ago, before the beginning of time, really, our ancestors worshiped different gods. The legend goes that the goddess Frigga knew her beloved son Baldur was going to die. So she went to every plant and animal on the earth, and under the earth, and in the sky, extracting a promise they would not harm Baldur. But his enemy, Loki, kenned of one thing she’d overlooked; mistletoe does no’ grow in or on the earth, or even in the sky, but rather on trees. Its berries are dropped there by birds, and its roots grow around the limbs of the great oak, high above the earth, but no’ quite of the air either.”
Smiling, she looked around at her captive audience, and lowered her voice further. “Loki, kenning this, had an arrow made of the wee mistletoe plant, and shot and killed Baldur with it. Frigga was distraught, weeping and wailing for three long days, as every plant and animal on earth tried to heal her son. Her tears became the white berries on the shaft of mistletoe which had pierced her son’s skin, and in desperation, she laid the plant upon his chest. When he magically came back to life, she praised the wee plant, declaring it a symbol of love and peace.”
Nodding, Moira sat back, and Lara spoke up to add, “And ‘tis said all who pass beneath the plant—which is easy, considering it grows over our heads—will be blessed with peace and love!”
“And,” Alistair added with a wink, “a kiss under the mistletoe will no’ hurt either!”
Around him, Nessa’s family chuckled, and Da called out, “Aye! ‘Tis my favorite part of the legend!”
Stifling her sigh, Nessa placed the pitcher of ale on the table beside Moira, then turned back to her spot on the bench, which stood off to one side. But before she could make herself sit, Brohn caught her eye.
He was standing, arms folded across his chest, with one shoulder propped against the mantel. Anyone else watching might’ve thought him at ease, but as Nessa’s eyes met his, she saw the truth.
There was so much swirling in those lovely blue depths, she wondered how anyone could miss it.
There was longing, and hope, aye, and need. A need which reached down into her stomach and pulled, reminding her of the way he’d groaned her name as he’d spilled his seed inside her that afternoon.
Her knees went weak.
Thank goodness she happened to be standing beside the bench, or she might’ve fallen face-first into the middle of the circle, embarrassing herself.
Again.
As it was, she sank down onto the bench, her gaze still locked with Brohn’s.
Near the hearth, Agatha spoke up. “ ’Tis my turn to tell a story!” She cleared her throat and lifted her cup in salute. “Are ye ready? ‘Tis a gory one!”
“The best kind,” murmured Evelinde, rolling her eyes.
Agatha nodded gleefully. “Years ago, a horri
fic fire blasted through the Sinclair keep, killing many of the clan's top leaders. One of the few survivors was a green-eyed beauty, daughter of the laird, who vowed revenge against the Macleans for their dastardly arson. She bided her time, cherishing a scrap of tapestry depicting a partridge—the only thing she had of her family’s—waiting until Yuletide, which made the Maclean laird at ease. The sneaky lass infiltrated his keep, intent on bloodthirsty revenge, but ‘twas no’ what she received! That Yule brought them both surprises!”
Around her, Nessa’s family listened, entranced, to the story, but she had eyes only for Brohn. What surprises were in store for the two of them?
Chapter 8
Lady Agatha’s story finished with much general acclaim, but Brohn heard little of it. Nay, his attention was caught completely by Nessa, and her expression.
Earlier, she’d been staring at him, but as Agatha’s story continued, Nessa had dropped her gaze to her lap. But her cheeks were still flushed, and she kept peeking up at him. And Brohn was certain he saw yearning in her eyes.
Had it only been that afternoon he’d taken her in his arms again and made her his?
After that, how could he possibly think he could let her go a second time?
Nay. Nay, she was his, and she deserved to be happy.
Although he didn’t think he was worthy of her, if she really still loved him, and still claimed he would be the one to make her happy, then who was he to argue? She knew her own mind and knew what she wanted.
‘Twas one of the many things he loved about her.
The laird cleared his throat. “My turn! My story is about a Hogmanay wedding, which almost doesn’t happen. Once there was a fierce warrior who had a soft heart. He gave his lover a pair of doves—which mate for life—as a symbol of his devotion. When her father received word the English had killed the warrior, he betrothed the lass to another, but she never gave up hope…”