by Alexa Aston
Kendra sat up straighter, a distinct glint of interest and excitement in her dove-gray eyes. “Och, could we? I’ve read about the festivities. It sounds so grand and entertainin’. I’d love to make a clove orange pomander.”
Unusually restrained, she swept her gaze expectantly between her brother and mother.
Emeline beamed, catching her husband’s eyes, and a slow smile kicked up one side of Liam’s mouth. His bride colored prettily, a matching smile framing her lips.
Skye was quite certain the current discussion had absolutely no bearing on his joviality or his wife’s demureness.
“It would be such good fun, Liam,” Kendra said, her enthusiasm contagious.
Aunt Louisa set her knife on her plate and, slanting her head slightly, regarded Skye intensely. “Och, that explains the red bow Patches is wearin’. I thought perhaps ye were tryin’ to keep tabs on the little beasty.”
Unfortunately, Patches had a penchant for pouncing on Aunt Louisa’s ankles and making mischief in her yarn basket. She’d also left a dead mouse, it’s four tiny feet poking straight upward, atop the cushion of Aunt Louisa’s favorite chair in the salon.
Skye hadn’t been able to convince Aunt Louisa that meant Patches liked her. Cats only brought gifts to those they favored and wanted to share with, she’d explained. Aunt Louisa had sniffed and declared she was loath to contemplate what Patches might bring should she dislike her.
Waving her fingers, Skye indicated her earrings and brooch. “These are my first small attempts at seasonal gayness, since mourning rather limits me, presently.”
Approval shone in her aunt’s kind gaze. “They are lovely on ye.”
Not receiving any immediate objections to her idea, she rushed on, “I know the holiday isn’t widely observed in Scotland, but Mama and Papa always celebrated in England.” Skye’s father had been an Englishman, through and through, though he disdained drunken revelry. “It has always been my favorite time of year, and I thought, perhaps, by including a few of the simpler traditions, I mightn’t miss them quite so much this year…”
She trailed off as she voiced the pain squeezing her heart.
“Och, well, now.” Liam leaned forward, speculation glinting in his eyes, the same quicksilver shade as Kendra’s. Fingering the handle of his knife, he dipped his chin in a contemplative nod. “’Tisn’t illegal, per se.”
“What’s no’ illegal?”
Everyone swung their astounded attention to the entry. Bold as brass and wearing an equally bright smile, Quinn strode into the breakfast room, his gaze immediately fastening on Skye.
She barely suppressed a cry of delight.
He came! Oh, thank the divine powers. Quinn is here.
Prince woofed a warning and trotted to greet him. After circling and sniffing quite intrusively around Quinn’s ankles and bum, he padded back to Liam.
Kendra slipped him a bite of egg as he passed, and he wagged his bushy tail in thanks.
If everyone kept feeding the dog, he’d be as round as a goat expecting triplets before long.
“Christmas, ’tisn’t illegal,” Skye managed, sounding almost normal. Difficult to do with glee burbling behind her ribs and delight toppling her stomach over on itself. “We’re to have a Christmas at Eytone Hall this year.” She slid a quick glance to Liam. “That is, if Liam approves.”
Even if he said no, the only thing she wanted for Christmas stood framed in the entry as virile and handsome as she’d remembered.
Why had he come back?
Because he’d promised to?
Or was there another reason?
Chapter Seven
It was all Quinn could do to prevent himself from striding across the carpet, scooping Skye into his arms, and kissing her until they both grew dizzy.
Or Liam punched him.
She looked impossibly more fetching than the last time Quinn had seen her, three and a half weeks ago. Color blossomed across her sculpted ivory cheeks as she gifted him a beatific smile. He’d have walked across Scotland barefoot in January to see the luster of her incandescent smile directed toward him like that.
Even her drab ebony gown couldn’t detract from her loveliness. She’d deemed to wear gems today, so hopefully, that meant she was starting to heal from her parents’ deaths. He’d be right by her side from now on, to make certain she didn’t have to do so alone anymore.
Liam surged to his feet and came around the table. He clasped Quinn’s hand in a hearty grip and slapped his shoulder. “’Tis good to see ye. When did ye arrive?”
“Early this mornin’. I believe ’twas about quarter past three.” He glanced out the north-facing, frost-etched window to the stables beyond. “My horse went lame, forcin’ me to walk the last several miles. I didna want to disrupt the household so late, so I used the kitchen entrance.”
“But ’twas freezin’ last night.” Eyes wide, Kendra looked aghast. “Ye might’ve froze.”
“She’s right, Quinn. More than one Highlander has unexpectedly met his maker by underestimatin’ the frigid temperatures,” the Dowager Baroness Penderhaven said, adding a lump of sugar to her tea. “Why didna ye travel by coach?”
“Horseback is much faster.” He cast Skye a meaningful glance and was pleased to see her blue eyes widen in understanding and a tinge of pink sprout upon her cheeks. “Besides, I’m accustomed to the elements, and I really didna have any choice once Benedict went lame. We either kept goin’ or spent the night outdoors huddled under a bush, which presented a far greater risk of freezin’.”
Skye made a distressed sound then quickly dipped her chin and studied her porridge with admirable concentration.
Quinn barely suppressed a triumphant grin.
She cares.
Delight soared through him, sending a joyful symphony tunneling through his veins. “Benedict wouldna have thanked me for the latter either.” He skewed his mouth sideways, a trifle self-consciously. “He’s a wee bit spoiled. Likes his comfort, he does.”
“As do we all,” the dowager baroness murmured distractedly while giving Skye a perceptive glance. Not much escaped Liam’s mother’s hawk-like attention. Her focus shifted to Quinn, her keen gaze drilling into his soul. “Please, fill yer plate and join us.”
After a moment, Skye drew her gaze upward. “How is your horse?”
“Verra well. His leg has been tended to, and he’s warm and comfortable in the stables.” Quinn ambled to the sideboard and, after helping himself to a generous amount of food, considered the three empty seats. Without a hint a of reservation, he placed his plate in front of the chair beside Skye, fully aware his action spoke volumes to all present.
Fine.
Quinn wanted them all to know what he harbored in his lost and lonely soul.
He pointedly disregarded Liam’s dark eyebrows elevating an inch as he veered his gaze just as meaningfully at another chair.
Sorry, old chap.
“Ye entered through the kitchen?” Emeline asked, sending her husband a half-bewildered, half-concerned look. “Shouldna the doors be locked at night against vagabonds and the like?”
Sinking onto his seat and snapping his serviette open, Quinn wagged his eyebrows. “Who said they werena, my lady?”
Kendra giggled, and Skye’s rosy lips swept upward, too.
Her ladyship’s eyes rounded. Clearly uncertain how to respond, she cut Liam a glance, but with the aplomb of a princess, she wrested her surprise under control. “Quinn, ye ken we dinna stand on ceremony. Please call me Emeline.”
“How many times have I asked ye no’ to pick the locks?” Liam resumed his seat and leveled him a reproachful stare.
Quinn hitched a shoulder as he cut into his sausage. “I was tryin’ to be considerate and no’ wake yer household at the ungodly hour. I’m sure yer housekeeper and butler are grateful for my thoughtfulness even if ye are no’.”
Liam made a rude noise under his breath.
“Aye, so sneakin’ into our house in the middle of the n
ight is considerate?” Arms folded, Kendra teased, mock annoyance in her tone. “What if ye’d disturbed a servant or Liam and found yerself shot as a result? I think that would’ve been quite inconsiderate. I really canna tolerate the sight of blood.”
Eyebrow cocked, Quinn stabbed his sausage with his fork. “Och, lass. I’m always verra, verra careful.”
“You make a habit of picking locks?” Skye asked, a degree of disquiet in her amused eyes. “It makes me rather wonder why the skill is necessary.”
“I’ll tell ye all about that business later,” he said with a brazen wink.
And he would. There’d be no secrets between them. She’d know about his father and grandfather and his intentions to continue aiding those subjected to enslavement in any form.
“As always, ’tis good to see ye again, Quinn.” Picking up her fork once more, the dowager baroness curved her mouth and angled her head toward Skye. “What do ye think about a Christmas celebration? Have ye ever observed the occasion?”
“Me? Nae, no’ that I can recall.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mayhap as a wee bairn. My mother was English, ye ken, but I think it a marvelous notion.” He bent slightly nearer Skye, murmuring for her ears alone, “I’m most happy to see ye in good spirits, Miss Hendron.”
Her color remained high, and she fidgeted with her serviette. She swept a quick glance around the table before speaking low. “You were gone so long, I’d begun to despair that you would ever return.”
“I vowed I would. Nothin’ but death itself could keep me away, leannan.”
“Oh.” At the whispered endearment, a pleased flush brought another rush of pink to her cheeks. “Did everything go as you’d hoped?”
“Indeed.” Reaching for his coffee, he lowered his chin. “I had some loose ends to tie up. Now, however, I’m my own man and free to do what I please. Do tell me about this fête ye’re plannin’.”
Beaming from ear to ear, Kendra piped up. “Skye wants to have a Christmastide celebration at Eytone Hall. I’ve heard tell of such marvelous things the English and others do to commemorate the occasion.”
“I think ’tis a wonderful idea, too.” Enthusiasm sparkled in Emeline’s eyes. “And I dinna think we should make it a quiet affair either. As ye said, Liam, though the Kirk might frown on some of the more pagan traditions, there’s nae law forbiddin’ us from hostin’ a house party where we just happen to offer a few Christmas traditions as entertainment.”
“Have I married myself a rebel?” Liam asked with an affectionate grin.
She laid her fingertips atop the back of his hand. “Liam, why dinna we invite the Kennedys and the Wallaces?”
“I think ye’d need to invite the Rutherfords and the McGregors as well,” Liam advised. “All live within easy travelin’ distance, and I believe they’d enjoy the gatherin’ as much as us.”
Kendra made a disgruntled noise, her fine raven eyebrows swooping low in consternation. “Must we invite all of the McGregors?”
“Yes. We must.” Her mother speared her a quelling look. “Ye ken Broden is like kin to us.”
“No’ all of us,” Kendra muttered, her expression sour. “He’s a giant pain in the arse to some. A great, nasty, puss-laden carbuncle on the bum.”
“Kendra Eislyn Olive MacKay, watch yer language,” the dowager baroness reproached. “If we’re invitin’ the others, we must invite the Duke of Roxdale, his wards, and yer cousin, Bryston McPherson.”
Would Skye mind all of the extra people she wasn’t acquainted with?
She was in mourning after all.
Had she wanted an intimate gathering, and now the whole affair was expanding into something vastly different? Her eagerness had kindled a good deal more zeal in the MacKays than Quinn would’ve expected.
She didn’t appear the least disgruntled, however. As a matter of fact, he’d never seen her so animated. Mayhap, she enjoyed entertaining. A drifter himself, the closest thing he’d ever come to hosting anything was inviting a chap to share an ale or a finger’s worth of whisky at a pub.
After she agreed to marry him, they’d have to discuss where she wanted to live. He had no preference where he put down roots, but he expected she’d want to be near her only remaining family.
Inhaling a bracing breath, he took another step toward propriety. “If it wouldna be an imposition, might my grandmother be invited? I am the only family she has left.”
Chapter Eight
“Of course, she should come,” Skye agreed at once. “I would very much enjoy meeting her.”
“I didna ken ye had any family,” Liam observed, his probing stare attempting to peel away the layers of subterfuge Quinn had hidden behind for so long. “I’d like to make her acquaintance as well.”
“I should warn ye,” Quinn said, recalling the oversized purple wig complete with a miniature ship she’d been wearing when he’d called upon her. “She’s outspoken and more than a bit eccentric. I believe at last count, she had nine cats—named after one mythological goddess or another—and they each have a place set for them to dine each mornin’ and evenin’. I believe it would do her a world of good to socialize.”
Maybe she’d stop treating the furballs like pampered children if she spent more time with humans.
“She sounds delightful.” Skye took a dainty bite of what now must be cold porridge. “Is she your maternal or paternal grandmother?”
“Maternal. A dotty, but dear thing.” Oddly, the usual ire Quinn experienced whenever his thoughts took him down the unpleasant path to his paternity didn’t burgeon within him. Mayhap, he could put the ugliness that had haunted his soul to rest at last.
The dowager baroness nodded, her face contemplative. “Aye, I like the idea. What we do in the privacy of our home is our business. And as Liam said, ’tis no’ illegal to celebrate Christmas. Emeline, ye are mistress of this house. What are yer thoughts?”
Emeline sent Skye an encouraging smile. “Why dinna we meet in the rose salon this afternoon at three of the clock and discuss our thoughts and ideas?” She gravitated her gaze to the dowager baroness and Kendra to include them as well.
Afternoon was perfect.
Quinn intended to request a meeting with Liam to ask for Skye’s hand in marriage, and then he’d invite Skye for a stroll later this morning and ask her to marry him. He cut Liam a side-eyed look and couldn’t help but chuckle at his wry, befuddled expression. “It seems, my friend, the ladies have this under control.”
“’Tis a good thing, too, because beyond a Christmas goose and a yule log, I havena the first idea what is called for. A right good scotch or cognac, I suppose. I dinna recall Christmastide ever bein’ celebrated in this house.” A hoary, grayish snout appeared over the table’s edge, snuffling loudly and clearly seeking a treat.
Liam obliged with half a scone, and the snout disappeared only to be followed by loud chomping.
“Do stop feedin’ him at the table, Liam. His manners are already atrocious,” his mother admonished, shaking her head. “As for Christmastide, it hasna been observed here. But that disna mean we canna start new traditions.”
“Precisely,” Emeline said, one finger on her chin and eyes slightly narrowed. “I’ll speak with the cook today. I have several ideas for festive foods. Black bun for one.” She clasped her hands. “We simply must have black bun and clootie dumplin’, of course.”
With each passing minute, Quinn appreciated the idea of Christmas festivities more and more. By God, when was the last time he’d eaten black bun? His mouth practically watered in anticipation.
“Oh, and wassail and mulled cider,” Skye put in. “And ginger biscuits and iced gingerbread.”
“And mince pies?” Kendra asked hopefully. “Sugar plums?”
Quinn couldn’t abide mince pie, and from the tiny twitch of Skye’s nose, he’d wager she bore no fondness for the novelty either. Mayhap that’s why Cromwell had pies outlawed for several years, too. Sugar plums, however, were another matter entirely.
> “We’ll all be fat as hogs by Hogmanay.” Humor pleated the corners of Liam’s eyes belying any real censure. With an almost boyish grin, he said, “I quite favor marzipan, myself.”
“Then, of course, we shall add it to the menu.” Skye laughed and shook her head, dislodging a soft, honey-colored curl. It slid to her temple to join the other tendrils framing her face.
Quinn balled his hand to keep from tucking the strand behind her ear.
“I fear my small celebration is going to become quite an event.” She gave everyone a winsome smile. “But the merriment is meant to be shared, is it not?”
“I believe our friends will be as delighted at the novelty as we are, my dear.” The dowager baroness bestowed a doting smile on her niece.
Beneath the cover of the tablecloth, Quinn gathered Skye’s hand into his own.
He barely bit back a chuckle at all of the activity going on beneath the tablecloth.
For an instant, she stiffened before her fingers curled around his.
She didn’t glance in his direction, but a rosy flush swept up her porcelain cheeks. His heart swelled with happiness to see the color in her face, a smile curving her pretty mouth, and cheer twinkling in her eyes once more. She’d been sad for almost as long as he’d known her.
“I know mistletoe is rare in the Highlands, and I don’t expect we’ll be able to do much in the way of decorating with greenery.” Skye turned her attention to the garden beyond the other window. “But I imagine there’s enough rosemary and other plants of one sort or another to make a kissing bough.”
Quinn quite liked the sound of that.
Beneath the table, she gave his fingers a suggestive squeeze.
Why, the darling lass flirted with him.
He squeezed back, and she bit her lip.
Liam shook his head. “No’ a bit of it, Skye. Quinn and I and a few of the tenants can journey to the Lowlands. We can collect greeneries and perhaps the mistletoe as well. Holly and pine are also plentiful there.” Even he seemed excited about the festivities.