by Amy Jarecki
“No, no, no. You knew bringing Andrew home would be difficult. You knew he’d challenge you at every turn.”
“But I dinna ken he’d tear out my heart and chew it to bits.” Christina curled against Lachlan’s chest, unable to stop the flow of tears.
He sat in an overstuffed chair and rocked her gently. Over and over, he repeated calming words. “That’s right, let it out…Let it all out…Things will improve, I know it…You and Andrew will be a family again.”
His warm lips caressed her forehead while she wiped her eyes. “Blast it all. Here it is Yule and I’m supposed to be the stalwart matriarch of the clan, and here I sit bawling like a bairn.”
Lachlan brushed warm lips against her temple. “Everyone needs to let go now and again. It is healthy for the soul.”
She nodded and nestled her head against his protective chest. “I dunna ken what I would do without ye here.”
He nuzzled against her temple. “Believe it or not, being with you has been my salvation. It has given me purpose in life again.”
A flutter rippled through her heart. “I wish ye would stay forever,” she whispered, shifting her eyes up to meet his fathomless, expressive blues. She took in a sharp inhale, as he smoothed the rough pads of his fingers along her cheek. Ever so slowly, his lips neared while long, feathery lashes shuttered his eyes.
When their lips finally met, all the pent up emotion within Christina’s breast surged, funneling into a whirlwind of heat. Pushing away all thoughts, she allowed herself only to feel. Lachlan could be so physical, so powerful, so brutal, but when he wrapped his arms around her, Christina felt invincible. Be it true or nay, she felt loved, and cherished, and valued. Reaching up, she slid her fingers through his locks. Soft waves of thick tresses contrasted with hardened male.
She wanted Lachlan Wallace almost as much as she wanted her son to take up his mantle. If only she could have them both, but there she stood, on the precipice of losing each man—Andrew to the enemy and Lachlan to a life so alien to her, she couldn’t conceptualize.
As his kiss eased, he cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand. “I wish I could hold you in my arms forever, too.”
“Ye do?”
“Aye,” he said, sounding more like a Highlander.
“When…” She closed her eyes and forced herself to be strong. “When will ye go back?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
She tugged the medallion out from under his shirt. “And all this mentions is following the truth. It is so strange.”
“It is.”
“But why canna ye have control over it?”
“Maybe I can.” He kissed her fingers and then tucked the medallion back down his shirt. “Let’s do our best to enjoy the holidays. My mother always said enjoy every moment, because you can never count on tomorrow.”
“I’m beginning to think your mother was quite a wise woman.”
“She was…I mean, she is.” Lachlan set Christina on her feet. “Are you ready to face the clan?”
“One more thing.” Taking Lachlan’s face between her hands, she kissed him—lips to lips, tongue to tongue. As bone melting as it might be, Christina put everything she had behind her ardor. If she must live for today, then she would no longer hide the desire burning deep inside her core. She kissed him because every fiber of her being wanted him, appreciated him, pined for him. If there was a thread of hope he’d decide to stay, she would prove to him how much she desired for him to do so.
When she straightened, he leaned back in the chair, his eyelids heavy. “My God, woman, you know how to make a man melt.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The following morning, Lachlan headed to the blacksmith shack. It was hard to miss, located near the stables, the ring of a hammer striking iron clanged all day long. He chuckled to himself. Two months ago, he never would have dreamed that he’d be living in a medieval castle, but for some odd reason, it suited him. Be it his mother’s love of history or the fact his father had walked this very ground not so long ago, he’d begun to grow comfortable with his surroundings. The sharp smells no longer turned his stomach, but they told him where he was and what was happening around him. Indeed, his sense of smell had become more acute. He could tell a horse from a cow or a sheep. He knew when he was close to the chicken coop or the swine’s bog, or the middens. True, he stayed as far away from the middens as possible.
He loved it when the kitchen’s bread ovens were baking the morning’s bread or when the lads were turning a mule deer on spit in the massive kitchen hearth. He loved to walk through the castle grounds and see the clansmen and women hard at work doing everything from washing clothes to tanning leather and making shoes or saddles by hand. Everything in this era pulsed with a harmony that had been lost to his generation—probably lost for eons.
Ducking inside the shop, Lachlan cleared his throat. Though open to the frigid air, the warmth from the fire radiated around him.
The blacksmith glanced up, his arms thick from years of working iron. “Ah, Sir Lachlan, how can I help ye this morrow?”
“I’d like to purchase a Christmas gift for her ladyship.”
“Och, are ye certain ye are in the right place? Ye might want to visit Morag up the way and buy one of her nice mince pies.”
“No. I want something a tad more personal—a keepsake. A necklace or a brooch or the like.”
“Oh, I see. Ye’ve grown fond of Lady Christina then?”
Why not admit it? “I have.”
“Do ye aim to marry her?”
Maybe Lachlan should have kept he mouth shut. “Let’s not be too hasty.” He pointed to a wooden lockbox on the shelf. “Do you make jewelry?”
“Dabble in it, aye.” The stout man pulled the strongbox down and fished a key out of the leather pouch he wore at his hip. “Mayhap I have just the thing.” After opening the box, he reached inside and pulled out a square cross stamped with a Celtic pattern. In the center, an amethyst sparkled. Good heavens, the stone was the size of a penny. The piece would sell for at least five-hundred pounds in a jewelry store in Edinburgh.
Lachlan held the cross in his palm. “Is this bronze?”
“Aye and I pilfered that wee stone from a dead Englishman’s purse after our victory at the Battle of Stirling Bridge.”
Though disgusted by the idea of rifling through a dead man’s effects, his heart jumped. “You were at Stirling Bridge?”
The man stuck out his chest with pride. “I was.”
“What was it like?”
“Pure masterful strategy by William Wallace and Sir Andrew de Moray, God rest their souls.” The man crossed himself. “Due to our leaders’ patience and refusal to give up their ground advantage, the English didna have a chance. Killed one and twenty myself.”
Lachlan shouldn’t have been impressed with such a vile admittance, but he was awed. These were brutal times and Scotland’s people had been ruthlessly oppressed. Had Lachlan been at Stirling Bridge, he would have been honored to take up arms. “What did William Wallace look like?”
“An enormous man—shoulders wider than a stallion’s hindquarter.” The smithy squeezed Lachlan’s shoulder. “Why, ye are nearly as powerful as he, the same coloring, too.” He leaned closer. “Bloody hell, even his eyes were piercing like yours.”
Though the smithy’s fire was still burning hot, a chill made Lachlan’s hairs stand on end. “What else do you have in that box?”
“A few trinkets—a ruby ring—at least I think ’tis a ruby.” The contents clinked as he pushed around with his pointer finger until he held up a brooch. “Always wondered what I’d do with this, though.”
Lachlan plucked the piece with his fingers. It was a bronze shield with a lion rampant. “Isn’t this royal?”
“Indeed. ’Tis the likeness of King Robert’s signet ring, though five times the size.”
“How many people would recognize it as the king’s?”
The smithy shrugged. “Not certain. The Bruce we
ars his family coat of arms on his brooch. I just was toying around to see if I could make the lion.”
“You did a fine job.”
“My thanks, but I think her ladyship would prefer the cross.”
“How much for both?” The ruby ring caught Lachlan’s eye with a sparkle. “And the ring, too?”
The beefy man scratched his thick beard. “A shilling for the necklace—I’ve got to charge for that, the amethyst is a keepsake. Ah…and five pence for the brooch, but I do like the ring.”
“How about two shillings for the lot?”
“Two, aye?” The big man grinned, his teeth crooked and stained. “I reckon, I couldna pass an offer as generous as that.”
Lachlan dug in the leather purse Christina had given him, paid for the items and thanked the blacksmith. “Next time anyone needs a fine piece of jewelry, I’ll ken where to send them.”
His next stop was the tailor shop to purchase a yellow silk veil for Andrew to give Christina because the lad had his head too far up his arse to think of pleasing his mother. Besides, it was about time for the woman to wear colors other than black or grey.
If I have anything to do with it, she’s going to enjoy this Christmas, dammit.
***
When Christmas morn finally came, Christina scooped a spoonful of porridge, intently staring at the stairwell. “Where is he?”
Lachlan reached for a pitcher of cider. “You kidding? He’s a teenager. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sleeps until noon.”
“Oh heavens, that willna do at all.” She pushed back her chair. “I must send someone to wake him.”
Lachlan dipped his spoon in his porridge and stirred. “Does he have any idea?”
She grinned, her insides practically bubbling over. “None whatsoever. Hamish went to collect the destrier from the Foster’s croft at dawn.”
Lachlan took an enormous bite. “Nothing like a bribe to help Andrew change alliances.”
Thwacking him on the arm, Christina shook her spoon beneath his nose. “It is not a bribe, ’tis a gift, and dunna forget it was your idea.”
“And I think it’s a great one. How much did the horse cost?”
“That is not something ye ask a lady.”
He chuckled before he shoveled in his next bite. “At least some things haven’t changed in the past seven hundred years.”
“Wheesht, someone could hear ye.” Christina glanced over both shoulders right before Andrew came stumbling through the stairwell, his hair mussed, he’s eyes still half-closed.
Lachlan beckoned him to the table. “Come break your fast, lad.”
“I’m starved,” he said, sauntering toward the dais.
Christina stood and held out her arms. “Happy Yule, son.”
Andrew grabbed a slice of bread from the table and shoved it in his mouth. “Happy Yule,” he garbled and took a seat, ignoring her invitation for an embrace.
She slid back into her chair, refusing to let his oversight dissuade her excitement. At least the lad had responded with some civility, though with his mouth crammed full. Manners could come later. Right now, all she hoped for was acceptance. She poured him a cup of cider. “There will be a big feast tonight and I’ve arranged for an ensemble of minstrels to play country dances.”
After guzzling his drink, Andrew set his tankard down and looked to Lachlan. “Will Father Sinclair and Aileen be there?”
“Don’t ask me, ask your mother,” said the big knight.
Though he frowned, ever so slowly, Andrew shifted his gaze to Christina and arched his brow.
“Of course, the father will bring his ward. She’s quite a special young lady learning to read and a commoner at that.”
“I think everyone should learn to read,” said Lachlan.
“So do I,” Andrew agreed, taking a bowl of porridge from the servant. “Can they sit at the high table with us?”
“Hmm. I think that would be a splendid idea.” Christina busied herself by scooping the dregs of her oats from her bowl. Only a fortnight ago, the lad had emphatically denied liking studies at all. Was it the cleric who’d changed his opinion or the cleric’s ward? It didn’t take a seer to divine that the bonny wee orphan who Father Sinclair had brought along to be Andrew’s study partner had something to do with it.
Christina chuckled to herself. Her son needn’t know she and the cleric were in cahoots. After all, she was the daughter of the Earl of Atholl. She’d been raised to be shrewd and to run a keep in the best interests of her family and her clan. Besides, what youth didn’t enjoy flirting with a lass near his age?
When Andrew finished eating, she placed her palms on the table and sat very tall. “We must go to the stables at once.”
Andrew looked to Lachlan—a maddening habit he was forming. “Will we not spar this morn?”
“It’s Christmas. No one works on a holiday as important as this.” Lachlan stood and gestured toward the door. “Come, I’ll think you’ll like what you see.”
The lad didn’t budge. “What? Have ye been practicing your lead changes without me?”
“Have I had that kind of time?” Lachlan strode over and pulled out Andrew’s chair with a loud scrape on the floorboards. “Are you going to follow or do I need to throw you over my shoulder?”
Groaning, Andrew stood as if it took a great deal of effort. “The pair of ye are always pushing me to do things I’d rather not.”
“Aye,” said Christina, leading the way down the dais steps. “Just like learning Latin.”
Freshly fallen snow crunched underfoot as they made their way across the courtyard and out the postern gate.
After they stepped inside the stable, Hamish met them. “Are ye ready, m’lady?”
She tried not to look too happy, though her insides were about to bubble over. “The question is, is Andrew ready?”
Andrew narrowed his eyes. “What is this?”
Christina clasped her hands to steady them. Dear Lord, if this ploy didn’t work, she’d never win him. “I’ve decided that since ye will become a great knight, ’tis time for ye to have a knight’s horse.”
With her words, hoofbeats clattered as Hamish led a heavy-boned gelding into the alley and walked him toward them. The horse shook his head and snorted, his chestnut mane flapping to and fro.
Andrew’s eyes grew round. “A destrier?”
“Go on,” said Lachlan. “He’s all yours.”
In two strides, the lad reached out his hand. With a nicker, the horse pushed his muzzle into Andrew’s palm.
“I think he likes ye,” Christina said as a tear spilled down her cheek. She quickly swiped it away before anyone could see.
Andrew glanced back with excitement in his eyes for the first time since he was but a bairn. “May I ride him?”
She stepped aside and gestured toward the arena. “Of course ye can.”
As he mounted and rode through the gates, Lachlan gave her warm wink. “This is perfect.”
Together, horse and rider started out with a slow warmup while the breath of each one puffed in misty billows. Christina covered her mouth and bade herself to hold back tears. “He looks so grown up on that big fella.”
“Aye he does,” Hamish agreed from behind. “He looks regal as well, if ye dunna mind me saying so.”
“Like a knight.” Lachlan leaned his elbows on the fence rail. “All he needs now is his armor and a surcoat with the de Moray crest.”
She gave him a look. “One thing at a time. When he’s ready he’ll have all that as well as his father’s sword, dirk and targe. I just willna give those things to him until he takes an oath of fealty to the de Moray clan.”
“It’s best if you don’t shower him with too many gifts at once,” said Lachlan. “Make him earn his place. He’s turned a corner, but still has a long way to go before his head is screwed on straight.”
Christina laughed. “Ye do have the oddest phrases at times, I’ll say.”
Though the snow chilled her toes to the bone
, she would be no other place right now. Andrew put the horse through his paces, walking, trotting, then taking him to a canter and changing leads. He weaved him in a serpentine pattern and leapt him over a log. Stopping the destrier in the center of the arena, he faced them before making the horse spin right then left.
Lachlan batted his hand through the air. “Now you’re showing off.”
Andrew smiled and trotted his mount toward them. “With some practice, I’ll make Jupiter bow just like a knight would do in a tournament.”
“Jupiter?” asked Christina.
“That’s what I’ve decided to call him—after the Roman God of the sky. Father Sinclair taught us about him.”
She connected gazes with Lachlan. Heaven be praised, this day was more joyous than she’d dreamed possible. “Then Jupiter it is.”
After riding another turn, Hamish beckoned the lad to the gate. “The big fella has already had a long day—brought him from Inverness whilst ye were still in your bed.”
“Verra well, but I want to ride again first thing on the morrow.” Andrew dismounted and brushed off his chausses.
Christina pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. “I say we go back to the keep and enjoy a tankard of warm cider in front of the fire.”
Andrew scrunched his face in the old scowl she’d seen far too often. “Ye gave me the destrier to secure my loyalty.”
Christina squared her shoulders and met his unpleasant stare. “Nay, he is my Yuletide gift to ye. I’ll have ye ken Sir Lachlan suggested a destrier and I simply agreed.”
He dropped his gaze and kicked the snow. “Well then, thank ye.”
Holy saints, had Christina just heard her son utter words of thanks? She glanced to the sky as a snowflake softly dropped upon her eyelid. “Ye are welcome.” If nothing else happened this day, she would go to sleep filled with happiness.
“That’s better.” Lachlan gave the boy a nudge, handing him a bronze brooch. “This is from me. I thought you might be able to find a use for it.”
“A lion rampant?”
Christina leaned in to better see it, then drew her hand over her mouth. She wasn’t about to say the lion was a sign of Scottish royalty. Besides, it was a sole lion in relief across a shield and not adorned with anything else.