Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages)

by L. L. Muir

  “I don’t get it,” she said aloud.

  “Think on it, Brianna. I’ve wanted a family and here I’ve had one dropped in me lap. The storm keeps you from leavin’ me. The lightening brought ye into me arms last eve so I could have the kiss I’d come for.”

  “You think you can control the weather?” She pushed aside the fact that she’d imagined a mean spirited fairy pushing her car off the road.

  “I do, lass. And I believe it now more than I did before. Listen. The wind and snow have settled since we turned for home, have they not?”

  The wind had nearly stopped. A little caress crossed her face, shook a branch here and there along the path, but it wasn’t blowing anymore. And there were sounds now. Some winter-tough birds chattered in the trees. The temperature had even come up. The clouds looked like they’d backed off, even though they still didn’t let any sunshine through.

  “You think you stopped the storm?” She looked up into his eyes, looking for signs of crazy. Surely she’d be able to tell if he was nuts. But he looked back at her, unflinching. His brown eyes were a lot lighter outside than they were inside his castle, a lot easier to read.

  He believed it. He thought he could control the weather. And it made her sad.

  “Shall we test it?” The corner of his mouth lifted. His eyes jumped with excitement.

  If he tested it, and it didn’t work, would he take it badly? If he did, would she want to stand by his side and help him through it?

  Why not? She’d already missed her flight. She had a mother of a storm to blame for not calling home yet. There was nothing she could do at the moment.

  “Yes,” she said. “But how can you test it?”

  He grinned. Like a boy taking a new airplane out of the package, getting ready to launch it.

  “I believe the storm exists to keep you at the castle.” He turned the horse around.

  The beast hadn’t taken three steps before the wind picked up again, like it was trying to blow them back up the hill. The snow joined in, slapping them in the face. The sweater was blown from her head. He didn’t seem to think it was worth stopping for.

  “Okay! Okay, let’s go back.”

  “Do ye believe me, lass?” He’d yelled to be heard above the wind whistling around them, and she was sitting on his lap.

  “Yes! Turn us around,” she said, but she didn’t really believe—couldn’t really believe.

  The horse turned again, but the storm didn’t stop. She held her breath, feeling each step the horse took, wanting to let herself fall apart. It was all just too crazy. It was a good thing Angeline was so young she didn’t realize that the world around her had gone nuts.

  Angeline!

  She turned to ask Heathcliff what he’d done with the little girl and noticed she didn’t need to yell. The storm had fizzled out again.

  But there is no such thing as witches.

  Then the light dawned. “You’re doing this,” she said.

  “That is what I’ve been trying to tell ye, aye?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, you’re doing this. You’ve got wind machines and snow machines or something. You’ve done this on purpose. You’re in on the joke, with the coachman. This is all a set up. Why didn’t I see it before? I knew I shouldn’t trust you.”

  Heathcliff frowned and shook his head. He held on tighter, like he thought she might jump down and run. Which was just what she would do, if she had a car to run to.

  “Nay, lass. Let us get inside and get settled. Jump to no conclusions. I dinna care for the way your mind is turning. Of course ye should trust me.”

  Bree looked up and realized they were about to reach the gatehouse. That fast? She’d been walking for a long time, but apparently she’d been walking in circles for longer than she’d thought.

  After a little hesitation, he helped her slide off then jumped down himself. He walked his horse through the small, low opening that was probably only meant for people. She shivered, but not from the cold. She no longer felt like she knew the guy walking behind her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Heathcliff had mucked it up and mucked it up good.

  Brianna had given him no chance at conversation. She’d latched onto the child and was using Angeline as a shield between them. For the rest of the day, they’d been unable to speak freely.

  But Angeline had yawned herself to sleep while Brianna told the tale of a woman who was held prisoner in a castle by a beast. It ended well for Heathcliff, however, when in the end, the beast turned into a handsome prince and was exonerated.

  Brianna had quickly claimed it was her least favorite story of all time.

  “Then why did ye tell it?” He laughed and took the cherub up the stairs. When Brianna invited him to leave the room so she could retire, he scooped her up in his arms and strode from the room with her.

  “‘Tis what any self-respecting beast would do, aye?” He carried her down the stairs and back to the parlor. “We will have this out, Brianna. Now. The only part of it ye’ll be choosin’ is whether or not ye shall be tied to a chair or sitting comfortably.

  She folded her arms and sat on the chaise.

  “That’s fine, then,” he said, but kept a close eye whilst he stoked the fire.

  He dropped a bit of plaid wool over her shoulders, then sat down at the opposite end of the lounge. She could not complain there wasn’t sufficient room between them.

  “So. Ye doona believe in witches?”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “Neither do I.”

  Her head whipped to the side. At least he had her attention.

  “The back of a horse was hardly the place for this conversation. My apologies.”

  She turned and brought a knee up onto the couch so she could face him full on, but still, she didn’t speak.

  “I thought perhaps I’d done something magical when Angeline began to hum.”

  She smiled briefly.

  “And you saw what happened with the weather.”

  She gave him an evil eye. He laughed.

  “But I’ll admit I’ve tried to make other things happen. Make things move. And I felt rather foolish when naught came of it. For instance, I canna get ye to come to my end of the couch now, can I?”

  She smiled and shook her head.

  “Well, then. I suppose I’m not a witch after all. But there is no doubt about it. Something unnatural is happening here, as ye said. And I thought if ye decided to stay with me, forever, that it only right to warn ye of the possibility that my blood might be a bit...tainted.”

  Her brows rose. She shook her head. She braced herself as if preparing to run.

  “Forever? What are you talking about?”

  He leaned forward and willed her to believe him sincere.

  “I love ye, Brianna Colby. Rain, shine, snow, wind. It has naught to do with the weather. Naught to do with holidays or notes written by lunatics. Marry me. Stay with me. Go where I go. Be with me always. Marry me.”

  She did not run, fortunately.

  But she did laugh.

  She laughed for a good long while, truth be told, until he decided it would have been kinder of her to run away.

  “I’m being punked,” she said. “I get it now.” Her smile faded a bit, turned a little sad. “My family? My so-called friends? Who’s behind it? I really don’t know anyone who could afford it, but wow. Just...wow.”

  “Lass. What are ye sayin’? If ye didna notice, I’ve just proposed marriage. I thought I was speakin’ English when I did so, but perhaps I’m mistaken.”

  “Oh, I heard you.” She waved a dismissive hand and got to her feet. “So what’s supposed to happen at midnight on New Year’s Eve? Huh? Everyone going to burst through the door? Balloons going to drop from the ceiling

  She tipped her head and looked at the rafters, then back at him.

  “I’ll tell you what. If this little conversation hasn’t been caught on tape, you’re secret is safe with me. I’ll keep go
ing along with it. We’ve got what? Two full days left?”

  He could only stare at her. Was the difference in language so great then? Did she not understand what he’d offered? Because he certainly had no ken of her meaning.

  Punked? What was punked?

  But he didn’t feel much like looking more the fool, so he didn’t ask.

  “I’m relieved, really,” she was saying, bringing him back to the conversation. “I was starting to believe I was actually in 1806. And your castle really is amazing.”

  He bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment, but he still did not trust his tongue.

  “You know where they screwed up though?”

  He shook his head. He didn’t understand the question, but he could at least tell it was a question.

  “You.”

  “Me?” His voice did not break with the emotions roiling in his chest, for which he was grateful.

  “Yeah. You. You were too good to be true. Right from the beginning. Too handsome. Too...” She took a slow breath and let it out in a rush. “Too perfect.”

  She grimaced and turned away, but not before he noticed her blush. At least she found him pleasant to look upon. But she couldn’t have had feelings for him, or surely she wouldn’t have laughed at his proposal.

  A pleasant facade was all he could muster then. His insides felt as if they were being hollowed out, like a pumpkin.

  By the time he’d escorted her up the stairs and to her chamber door, he had decided on his parting words. If they kept her from sleeping, so be it.

  “Goodnight, Mr. McKinnon.” Her smile was bright, but she was nervous.

  “Just a moment,” he said.

  She placed her hand on the latch, but did not open the door. Prepared to run, as always.

  “Yer mistaken about a few things.”

  “Oh?” Her confidence was slipping fast. Her grip in the latch tightened. She probably thought he was going to kiss her. But they were beyond that.

  He reached out and handed her the walking candle.

  “I am nay, nor have I been, conspiring with anyone to, uh, punk ye. I fear no one bursting through my door at midnight on New Year’s Eve, save a villainous coachman, and I’d nay fear him but I have a child to protect. When my servants return, I will arrange transportation for ye, wherever ye care to go. The year is 1806. And it’s Heathcliff.”

  He turned and stepped away, but he heard her gasp over the clacking of his boots.

  “Then you really—”

  He spun on his heel but didn’t smile. “Yes. I really.” Then he spun back and walked into the darkness.

  Heathcliff reached for the door of his tower room, but he could not face the memory of her sitting on his bed. Not just yet, anyway. He was exhausted, to be sure. But not the kind of fatigue that would help him sleep anytime soon. So he turned right and climbed to the top of the tower. A little cold air and a bit of perspective was in order.

  Perhaps the moon would ken how a man might fall out of love with a woman.

  * * *

  Bree couldn’t seem to make herself open the door and go inside. Angeline was in there. Angeline, to whom she shouldn’t be getting more attached because her daddy was crazy. He was lying about the year. He was wrong to think he could have fallen in love with someone after just a week. She’d been with David for a year and a half and had to work damn hard to get him to love her. Love just couldn’t come that easily.

  Could it?

  She shook her head and slid down the door, found herself sitting where she’d found Heathcliff just that morning, trying to tell her that he didn’t want her to go. Because he...loved her?

  Holy crap! Was he telling the truth?

  Was it just David that made love so difficult? Maybe instead of Bree being hard to love, it was just that David was all wrong for her. She’d tried so hard to make herself fit his life, like a puzzle piece that left gaps; she thought all she needed was to fill in those gaps. But she belonged to a different puzzle.

  Maybe it was possible to fall in love in a week.

  Oh, she was an idiot. Of course it was possible—she’d done it herself! Why else would her heart have broken when she thought she was being punked?

  Her feet were moving toward the tower before she realized she’d made a decision, headed into the dark without caring if her candle went out. She wasn’t afraid of shadows as much as she was afraid it was too late. Maybe she’d run away from him one too many times.

  Her yellow circle of light fell on the tower door covered with gnarly celtic knots. She pulled, then sighed in relief. He hadn’t locked her out. She stepped across the walkway and was glad the door to his room was smoother. She knocked quickly—for fear of chickening out.

  Three times.

  She took a deep breath and got ready to apologize.

  He didn’t answer.

  She knocked again.

  No movement. No way was he already asleep. She’d give him one last chance. If he didn’t hear her knock the third time, then it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe this wasn’t her puzzle either. Maybe Heathcliff needed a puzzle piece from 1806!

  She knocked. Hard.

  Nothing.

  She smashed her ear against the door, to see if she could hear him snoring. There was nothing. He knew she was there, and he didn’t care. He’d made his decision.

  The way back to Angeline’s door was better lit, if only from her red face.

  * * *

  Heathcliff found his perspective on the roof. Looking down upon his land, snow-covered as it was, he realized that the world was too lonely a place to walk it alone. Since the moon was nowhere in sight, he got no advice from that quarter. He would simply be forced to go on loving his mad-as-a-hatter American who believed she was from the future.

  She believed something else as well—he couldn’t fathom how he’d missed it all this time—she believed he didna love her because she believed no one could.

  Well, he’d just have to convince her. He had two entire days in which to do so. And if he could not... Well, then, he’d just have to keep on trying, after they were finished chasing the coachman out of their lives.

  The servants would return. She’d appreciate the activity, he was sure. And the three of them could put their unnatural holiday behind them.

  “Come, storm. Do yer worst. Keep the lass by my side until I can win her,” he said.

  Just in case.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Although he had every right to feel insulted the next day, it was Brianna who acted so. She’d gotten quite the large bee in her bonnet, and there seemed to be no way to get it out. She smiled at Angeline each and every time the lassie looked in her direction, but she had no smile for him. And nary a word.

  Her eyes were rimmed with red. It should have given him some solace that she’d wept a bit, but it only frustrated him for wanting to console her. He believed in his bones she loved him, for she’d already admitted she believed him to be perfect. Too good to be true, she’d said.

  The memory forced a smile to his face. He cleared his throat.

  “I thought, since we havna much time left,” he began, hoping he might win her attention. But alas, she made no indication she could hear him at all. “I thought perhaps the pair of us can get to know one another a wee bit better. Perhaps ye can tell me what it’s like, where ye’re from. The year I mean. Is there anything of the future that might be helpful for me to know beforehand?”

  She smiled. A good sign, that. But then she barked out a laugh that wasna flattering for her and didna bode well for him. He was almost relieved when she stood and left the room.

  But he wouldna give up. A smile was a smile. And silence could be broken.

  * * *

  That night Bree took a book from Heathcliff’s library and swore she wasn’t going to give him the time of day. She stayed in a blue wing-backed chair on the far side of the room so he’d have no reason to wonder where she was and a good reason to give her some privacy. She kept her back a
t an angle to the fire so she’d have enough light to see the words. And every few minutes, she had to remember to turn the page, so he would think she was actually reading the damn thing.

  She thought it was a romance. The title said something about the birds and the bees. It turned out to be a farmer’s guide. And even worse, the letters were all messed up on some of the words. If she skimmed and read fast, her mind kind of filled in the blanks and she understood a little bit. But her mind wasn’t working all that fast. It kept stalling, getting distracted by how absolutely pissed she was.

  Of course she wasn’t pissed, she was hurt. But pissed was a lot easier to pull off because she wasn’t going to walk around sniffling, and she’d be damned if she was going to lock herself in that bedroom for two days. So pissed worked.

  She hadn’t spoken to him all afternoon. She’d gone through the library looking at every publication date she could find. But she eventually gave up hope. She was, quite possibly, spending her holiday in 1806 Scotland and she wasn’t freaking out because it was the second best explanation if she was not being punked. It would be a relief, having so much explained and accounted for. And she had to admit, she would be relieved that Heathcliff wasn’t actually insane.

  There were a lot of things it didn’t explain, though—like Angeline.

  The girl knew American Sign Language. American. And it sure as hell wasn’t around in 1806. And the French version? Half of that made no sense in English. Was the girl from the future too?

  Oh, wow. She was not even going to suggest that to Heathcliff. He was going to freak out enough if she ever came up with proof she was from 2012. And if the coachman showed up with her handbag...

  Crap was going to hit the fan at midnight. She could feel it. And if she ended up in a different century, then there was no sense letting Heathcliff know how she felt about him. It would only make it harder on them both.

  While she scoured the library, Laird Gorgeous had wandered around the castle holding Angeline’s hand. The child hadn’t seemed to notice there was anything wrong, so she continued with the silent treatment. In fact, she only spoke when it was time to put Angeline to bed. Since Goodnight Moon had become the girl’s favorite story, Bree recited it again from memory, then kissed the little girl and said goodnight.