Once Upon a Highland Christmas

by Lecia Cornwall

  She wanted more, made a soft sound in her throat, need and demand, and he obliged. His thumb pressed gently on her chin, opening her mouth. His tongue stroked the inner surface of her lower lip, and she gasped at the delicious intimacy of that. He slanted his mouth over hers, thrust his tongue deeper, and she felt a moment’s surprise. Was this how kisses worked? She liked it. Very much. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangled her fingers in the silk of his hair, let her tongue meet his, pressing closer. She stood on her toes, her breasts pressed against the hard muscles of his chest, his arms enfolding her, surrounding her. She moved her hips, shifted them a little against his body, wanting—­ He pulled back.

  “We should stop,” he said, breathless.

  She looked into his eyes. The gray was gone, subsumed into the black. He was breathing hard, and she could feel his heart beating against hers. He leaned forward, laid his forehead on hers, his eyes closed, stroking her hair with shaking hands. She tried to kiss him again, to press her mouth to his again, but he caught her arms, untangled her, stepped back. “God, Alanna—­” He moved to the other side of the table. “I didn’t bring you here for that,” he said, “but damned if I can remember now why we came in here.”

  Alanna clasped her hands. “I apologize,” she said. “I kissed you. I didn’t intend to.” But she didn’t truly regret it. Then she remembered that he was betrothed—­or almost—­to Penelope, and she belonged to Merridew. Hot color filled her face. He must wonder what kind of wanton, wicked, dangerous creature he’d let into his home. She turned away, moved toward the door.

  “Wait.” He stopped her as her hand closed on the latch. “A walking stick. That’s what I meant to find. I was making one for old Ewan MacGillivray, but I didn’t finish it in time. It was his cottage we stayed in, the night of the storm.” Alanna felt her cheeks grow warmer still. Her heart still pounded against her ribs, her lips tingling, the taste of him on her tongue. She watched as he searched the shelves, cool and unaffected. He found the stick and held it out to her with a smile. She took it from him and felt the jolt of awareness, of desire, as their fingers touched. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Not quite so unaffected, then.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving her fingers away from his, closing her hand on the wood. She concentrated on looking at it, not really seeing it, all too aware that he stood before her, close enough to kiss again. She couldn’t move, nor did he. Instead she waited. Would he kiss her this time? Her mouth watered.

  “Do you need help going up the stairs?” he asked at last, his tone flat, calm, and she imagined how it would feel if he carried her now, after the kiss.

  “No,” she said quickly. “I can manage. Thank you for the stick.”

  She turned and fled, going through the door as quickly as she was able, racing down the hall and up the steps as fast as her wounded knee would allow, more afraid that he would not chase her than that he would.

  She reached the sanctuary of her room and shut the door firmly. She was surrounded by his presence here, his belongings, his scent. Her breath caught in her throat, and sharp longing shot through her body. She pressed her hand to her lips.

  She’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her back.

  Now she knew how it felt to kiss a man you admired.

  It hadn’t made it better. It made it worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  IAIN LEANED ON the bench and stared at the door after Alanna left. He’d kissed her.

  He shouldn’t have. She belonged to someone else, and he hadn’t the right. Actually, she’d kissed him. He grinned. He’d been surprised when her mouth met his. It had been an unskilled kiss, a first kiss.

  He licked his lips, tasted her still. He paced the room, hard as a bloody pole, wanting nothing more than to go after her, throw open the door to his room—­her room—­and do it again. This time, he wouldn’t stop.

  The door opened, and he looked up eagerly, his heart rising, expecting, hoping it was Alanna.

  It was Penelope. She stepped inside and looked around the room. If she’d arrived five minutes earlier, she’d have found Alanna here, in his arms. He swallowed and ran his hand through his hair, dislodged sawdust, wondered if she’d seen Alanna leaving.

  Penelope made a face and stepped back. “You’re covered in dust! Whatever are you doing? You poor man—­you won’t have to clean stables or chop wood or rescue wayward peasants at Woodford.”

  He held up a hand to stop the familiar insistence that he would be idle, unnecessary. “So you’ve said—­there are servants for that. But like working with my own horses, and I’m carving a Christmas gift for my sister. No servant can do that. And Alanna—­Lady Alanna—­is hardly a wayward peasant.” She was an angel.

  Her eyes lit. “Presents? Are you making me one?”

  He swallowed. He hadn’t considered it. “Of course.”

  She came forward eagerly, her eyes flirtatious, intimate. She laid her hand on his arm, crowded closer. “What is it? May I see? I promise to act surprised.”

  He forced himself to stay where he was and not move away, pasted on a smile he didn’t feel. He should touch her, cover her hand with his, kiss her, but he found he could not. “That’s not how Christmas works,” he murmured. “The surprise is better if it’s not feigned.”

  “Oh, but I’m a very good actress,” she said and stepped closer still, batting her lashes at him. Her eyes were as blue as the loch at high summer, her perfume heady and sweet. He stared down at her and realized to his horror that her eyes had closed. She was rising on her toes, her lips puckering.

  He ducked.

  He couldn’t kiss her now. Not after kissing Alanna. Penelope nearly fell on her face as he moved out of reach, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself, stared at him in disbelief. He snatched up the half-­finished carving, the one Alanna had admired minutes ago, and held it out to Penelope. “This is what I’m making for Fiona. What do you think?”

  Her lips were still puckered—­pinched, really, and her eyes had darkened now—­the loch before a storm. She let her gaze fall on the figurine, but she made no move to touch it.

  “That’s it? Well. I hope you’re going to give me something more interesting. At Woodford, I have a collection of rare porcelain dogs. Wood is so—­well . . .” She let the thought trail off.

  “Then what would you like for your Christmas gift?” he asked, and he could have bitten his tongue in two.

  She laid a finger on her chin and raised her eyes to the rafters. “I don’t know. I will inherit the Purbrick jewels when—­if—­we marry. Are there any MacGillivray jewels?”

  He had his mother’s wedding band, and her betrothal ring, set with an amber cairngorm in gold. It was simple, and Scottish in design. He tried to imagine slipping that ring onto Penelope’s finger.

  “No,” he said. “No jewels. My father wanted to buy a necklace for my mother one Christmas, went all the way to Edinburgh for it, but she chose to purchase books for the library instead. He gave her books every Christmas after that, because that’s what made her happy.” He recalled in that moment that Alanna had said books had always been her favorite Christmas present as well.

  Penelope recoiled, as if she feared there was insanity on his side of the family tree. “How very odd,” she managed. “I suppose all those books are at least good for Fiona, being unable to walk properly or dance, or hope for—­”

  He scowled at her, and she had the grace to stop talking. She blushed. “I mean, she’s very sweet, but that limp . . .”

  Alanna called his sister brave, charming. She saw beyond Fiona’s infirmity. Penelope hadn’t even looked. He felt anger burn through his chest, checked it. Instead, he crossed to the door and opened it. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to see to,” he said firmly, waiting for her to go.

  She hesitated. “Oh, but I came to ask you what you wanted for Christmas.
There’s a mere fortnight left before Christmas Eve.”

  What did he want? A way out. He shut his eyes. “There’s nothing I need.”

  She sauntered toward him, smiling seductively. There was a long curl of planed wood clinging to the fringe of her shawl. “But what do you want?” she asked, her voice an octave lower.

  Iain swallowed. Now was the moment—­he only had to say, You. I want you to marry me, and be my countess. He took a deep breath, clenched the door latch tighter, and licked his lips before speaking.

  But he could still taste Alanna’s kiss. He ran his hand through his hair, smelled her heather-­scented soap on his hands. He closed his mouth with a snap. Penelope tilted her head expectantly, raised her eyebrows, blinked at him, wordlessly giving him permission.

  He couldn’t.

  “I must go,” he said and left the room, leaving Penelope standing by the table, knowing she was staring after him in disbelief. He didn’t stop until he reached the stable and the quiet, undemanding presence of the horses.

  PENELOPE STARED AT the doorway. What the devil was wrong with the man? “Books, instead of jewels?” she said to the empty room. “How ridiculous.” Iain would not find her so easy to please. One could not dazzle a man with a book. A book did not reflect the sparkle of diamonds and sapphires in a woman’s eyes. She could not walk into a room and draw the envious stares of every person there with a book. If he gave her a book for Christmas, she’d use it to hit him over the head and knock some sense into him.

  What would he give her for Christmas? She had promised to act surprised. She looked around the room. The stone walls radiated chill, and she drew her shawl tighter. Aside from the carving bench lined with knives and saws, blocks of wood and wood shavings, there was nothing to see. Penelope noticed the drawer and smiled. Of course. He’d hide his gift if he wanted it to be a surprise. Just a little look couldn’t hurt, could it? It would make it easier to feign anticipation and delight if she knew. She opened the drawer, saw the little linen-­wrapped bundle.

  She held her breath and unwrapped it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ANNIE WATCHED THE laird stride through the kitchen without a word to anyone, heading toward the stable. She exchanged a look with Wee Janet. “The laird’s in a hurry,” Janet said.

  “Aye,” Annie replied, turning back to cutting carrots. Iain had fled to the stable the night his father died, when he was a boy. She’d found him curled up in the hay, pretending not to cry. He’d gone there after Fiona’s accident as well. He would stand in the shadows amid the peaceable company of the garrons and the milk cow and think—­or worry. Not that he shared his thoughts with Annie or anyone else—­he was a quiet man who kept his own counsel. And he had a lot to think about. Annie sniffed the air as he passed. Heather. The Sassenach wore lavender.

  She stared at the doorway and smiled.

  “What are you grinning at, Annie?” Wee Janet asked.

  “The cat,” Annie murmured. “And the pigeon.”

  “The cat’s outside somewhere, isn’t she?”

  “She’s wherever Iain is, I’m thinking,” Annie replied, tapping her forehead, and she smiled again.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ALANNA SAT BY the window of her room and stared out across the moor. The world was tucked up under a fine thick feather quilt, white satin embroidered with the tracks of rabbits, the bold black lines of the bare trees. Their bony branches pointed accusingly at the sky and the mountains, blaming them for the snow. The tops of the distant hills kept their noses in the air, remained aloof, gray and proud against the clouds, daring them to shake down more snow, to just try and bury them if they thought they could.

  She could see the barn and byre, and the cluster of houses that formed the village, just down the hill from the castle.

  She was trying to read, but the words kept dissolving on the page, and all she saw was Iain’s face. Her lips still buzzed from the kiss they’d shared. It had been a very nice kiss, memorable indeed. It would be the kiss against which she measured all other kisses. She forced her thoughts away from that idea. Her hand, her kisses, her body, belonged to the Marquess of Merridew. Had it been only five days since she’d left Dundrummie? It felt as if she’d been away for a lifetime, had come to another world, another time, where Merridew didn’t exist.

  But he did, and he was waiting for her. If she had not gone out for that walk, gotten caught in the storm, she would be travelling through England at this very moment with her new husband, on her way to spend Christmas with her esteemed in-­laws, the Duke and Duchess of Lyall. They’d be complete strangers to her, and she to them. Her heart lurched. Christmas shouldn’t be spent among strangers. She’d have Merridew—­would he feel like less of a stranger after they had consummated their marriage? She repressed a shudder. But she had made a promise, she reminded herself again.

  A knock at the door surprised her, and she stared at the panels for a moment before she bade her visitor enter. What if it was Iain? What if he wanted to kiss her again? She would not—­should not. Not again. “Come in,” she said, her voice husky. She put a hand to her hair, smoothed a wayward strand back behind her ear, and bit her lip.

  Penelope opened the door and, as usual, swept the room with a suspicious glance before she entered, as if she hoped to catch Alanna doing something she shouldn’t be.

  Like kissing Iain MacGillivray. Alanna felt her cheeks heat. This time, she was indeed guilty. She resisted putting her hand to her lips. Was it possible to look at a woman and know she’d been kissing a man? She got to her feet and dipped a curtsy, ignoring the pull of pain from her knee. “Good afternoon, Lady Penelope.”

  Penelope blinked at her, her eyes narrow. “I was wondering if you’d heard from your family as yet—­or Lord Merridew.”

  Alanna swallowed. “No, not yet.”

  “Surely you’re anxious to leave this place, go home, marry him.” She clenched her teeth on the last word, spat it out like a curse.

  Did she know about the kiss? Alanna clutched the book against her chest and wondered if she should apologize. What would she say, that it had been a mistake? Not to her.

  Penelope’s eyes fell on the book. “You’re reading a book,” she said, making it an accusation. “I suppose you love books.”

  “Very much. This is poetry. Robert Burns. Have you read his poems?”

  Penelope’s expression stayed hard, and she ignored the question. She folded her arms over her lush breasts. “Tell me, if you had to choose a Christmas present, would you choose jewels or books?”

  Alanna swallowed. Was this a test? As Marchioness of Merridew, she could have both, she supposed. She wouldn’t have to choose. “I think—­” She looked at Penelope, noted the fine wool of her gown, blue, to match her eyes, and the expensive cashmere shawl, embroidered with summer roses—­and noticed the delicate curl of the wood shaving hanging from the fringe, like a decoration, or a signal. Alanna felt her stomach knot. Had Penelope been in the solar before or after her? Had Iain kissed her as well?

  “Books or jewels?” Penelope asked again.

  “Um—­books,” she said, wishing she were in the library at Glenlorne, curled up in her favorite chair by the fire, safe, where the only adventures were the ones written on the pages.

  Penelope’s face bloomed redder than any rose, and she unfolded her arms. For a moment, Alanna wondered if Iain’s cousin meant to hit her, but Penelope’s manicured hands clenched at her waist instead. “I’d choose jewels. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires . . . even if one is disappointed in love, the jewels never lose their sparkle, do they?” She stroked her skin, as if the jewels already lay upon her white bosom.

  “I suppose not,” Alanna murmured.

  “Do you have a betrothal ring from Lord Merridew?” Penelope asked.

  Alanna stared at the curl of wood. It would fit perfectly around a lady’s finger. “Um, no.
He was to bring it with him to the wedding, present it to me the night before we married. I suppose it’s at Dundrummie.”

  Penelope stretched her naked left hand before her, stared at it, and smiled. “The MacGillivray betrothal ring has a sapphire as big as a pigeon’s egg. It’s too heavy to wear every day, of course, so I keep it locked away. I shall wear it at Christmas, let everyone see it.” Her eyes glowed. “It will be official then, and everyone will know.”

  Alanna’s chest tightened. So Iain had asked Penelope to marry him. Her heart dropped to her ankles even as she forced herself to smile. It made her jaw hurt. “I’m sure it’s a lovely ring indeed,” she managed. “You’ll make a beautiful bride,” she added, parroting the words she’d heard so often from her mother, her aunt, the seamstress, and every other person at Dundrummie. Their smiles hadn’t reached their eyes. No one at all expected her to be truly happy, it seemed.

  “Thank you.” Penelope preened like a contented cat, full of cream. “Now, we should see what we can do to get you back to your own groom for your own wedding as quickly as possible. You’ll be his Christmas present, safe and sound.”

  Christmas had always been Alanna’s favorite time of year. She suddenly wished that her wedding could have been at any other time of year.

  She felt more like Merridew’s Christmas dinner than his present.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Twelve days before Christmas