Looking back at the hollow eyed children, Liv’s eyes grew glassy. She’d read about the disaster, felt sorry for those involved but in a distant manner. Not so now. Here she was heiress to a shoe fortune, the granddaughter of a master cobbler, and staring at two children’s bruised, bare feet. That just wouldn’t do.
An added mission settled in her mind, Liv asked, “Why isn’t she heading toward Glasgow? Isn’t it closer to her home?”
“Aye, but ’tis likely she already tried to find employment there and failing, is now heading south.”
“What work might she find in Newcastle?”
“Newcastle upon Tyne is not only known for shipping coal but for its pottery and glass manufacturing. If there’s nothing for her in the factories then she might find work as a domestic or laundress. The town is expanding. If that fails...”
Her children would starve. Unwilling to accept the possibility, Liv took a deep breath. Thanks to Grandpa Enna she had the skills to kill two birds with one stone.
He patted her arm. “Here we are.”
They’d stopped at a long table before the village’s stone church. “The buns await your pleasure, my lady.”
Looking at the neat row of small brown loaves and the anxious faces of the women before the table, Liv’s heart suddenly stuttered. In a whisper meant for only Mr. MacNab’s ears, she confessed, “I’ve no idea what a prized Christmas bun should taste like. I’ve no idea what’s even in them.”
Grinning, he bent and cut through the first pastry’s crust, exposing a dark, fruit-filled middle. “The center is made with raisins, currents, nuts and citrus peel. The ladies then add all manner of spices such as allspice, pepper and cinnamon. Whatever spices they might have on hand, which has proven disastrous on one or two occasions.”
Oh. “Thank you for the warning.”
She bent and sniffed. “Ah, this one reminds me of mincemeat.”
He handed her a white porcelain cup. “’Tis wassail, mulled wine. Ye’ll need it as we go along.”
He took a cup for himself then cut a small piece from the first bun and held it to her lips. “Have a taste.”
She did and after swallowing, said, “That’s really quite good.”
He nodded. “Most will be. During the twelfth century they were called Scottish King Cakes and were part of our Twelfth Night tradition. They went out of fashion during the Reformation then came back in when Mary, Queen of Scots returned from France. Legend holds that her cook began hiding a bean in the cake. Whoever found it became the King for the evening. Today we call them Scotch Christmas buns and usually eat them on Hogmanay.”
“Hogmanay is our New Year’s Day isn’t it?”
“Aye.” He cut into the second loaf. “Here, please taste another.”
Liv opened her mouth. How odd. She’d never anticipated having a man feed her, nor expected the small rush of pleasure it caused. This was most curious.
They worked their way down the table under many a watchful eye. By the time Liv tasted the last Christmas bun, her cup was empty and she strongly suspected she wouldn’t be able to eat for a fortnight.
Mr. MacNab placed both cups on the table then took her elbow. “Come, Miss Conor. We must now decide the winner.”
He guided her across the torch lit roadway to a stone bench tucked beneath the spreading boughs of a thick pine where he said in a hushed voice, “Now we sit and pretend to disagree about which bun was the best. The ladies can then take pride in knowing several qualify for the prize. The longer we take to decide the winner, the more competitive they believe their bun to be.”
“Clever. Can we then agree that the third was by far the best and move on to other topics? I’d really like to discuss—”
“Uhmm, I thought the last one was the best.”
“Really? I found it too...peppery.”
“Humph! I found the third one too bitter. All that citrus peel...” He shuddered, which made her laugh.
“Are you serious?”
He nodded. “Have you ever wondered why God made oranges and lemons so easy to peel? ‘Tis because he never intended us to eat their skins.” When she rolled her eyes, he assured her, “‘Tis true. Even says so in the bible.”
Eyes narrowing, Liv shook her head. “It does not.”
“Does so. Ephesians 4:13 ‘Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor and evil speaking be put away from you...’”
“That isn’t what the passage means.”
“Well, it should.” He then wiggled his eyebrows at her.
Laughing, she decided the man was delightfully impossible.
From deep within the boughs above their heads a female voice said, “Oh good. You’ve finished arguing.”
Startled, Liv looked up. “Merciful Mother of God! Pricilla, what on earth are you doing up there? And who is that with you?”
Priscilla wiggled a kissing ball over their heads. “Ambushing people with mistletoe, of course.” Then smiling over her shoulder, she said. “And this is Robbie MacNab, the Duchess’s blacksmith.”
Thick fingers with black-rimmed nails pierce the pine branches followed by a shaggy blonde head, then a handsome face with an engaging smile. “A pleasure to make yer acquaintance, m’lady.” To Mr. MacNab he nodded and said, “M’lord.”
At her side Mr. MacNab said, “Evening, Robbie.”
Liv, uncomfortable with being addressed as my lady, briefly wondered if Mr. MacNab felt the same about being addressed as my lord. But manners didn’t matter at present.
Jumping to her feet, she jabbed a finger toward the ground. “Get down here this minute, young lady.”
The duchess will have my head if she learns of this.
Priscilla waggled the kissing ball above their heads. “Not until he plays the game and kisses you.”
Mr. MacNab sighed. “She’s right, Miss Conor. There’s no hope for it. We’ve been caught beneath the bough.”
Liv caught her lower lip between her teeth. Yes, she’d imagined being kissed by Mr. MacNab. Twice, in fact, but she’d imagined it occurring in the distant future and in private. Perhaps in his rectory parlor or in Blythe Hall’s music room.
Never, ever, had she imagined being kissed by this handsome man today and while on full public display at a fair!
She huffed and began pacing. What to do, what to do?
Matters would only go from bad to worse if she continued to vacillate and Pricilla, growing tired, fell out of the tree and broke her neck.
Too, the longer the silly twit stayed in the tree, the more likely Augusta would happen by, see her and then tell the Duchess.
Liv blew through her teeth. She had no choice but to sacrifice a bit of her own dignity to save that of her friend. “Very well. Mr. MacNab, you may kiss me.”
Before she could catch her breath, much less brace herself for the unknown, his hand caught her by the nape and drew her forward. His right arm slipped about her waist and her breasts were suddenly pressing against Mr. MacNab’s well-muscled chest. She gasped as unexpected but delicious sensations coursed through her, then his lips, firm and soft, captured hers.
Oh my!
TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE
CHAPTER SEVEN
To his delight Olivia Conor’s soft lips parted on a sigh. Better yet she tasted sweet, of wassail, cinnamon and allspice.
Delightful.
His fingers threaded through the soft curls at Olivia’s lovely nape as he pulled her closer still. His left hand settled at the small of her back. Feeling a wasp-like waist, he was pleased to discover she was as lithe as he’d imagined her to be beneath her voluminous coat. As she uttered a soft mew and relaxed against his chest he deepened his kiss, imagining her pert breasts cradled in perhaps a soft pink cotton chemise above the boned corset she obviously didn’t need. That he’d quickly remove. Aye.
His palms itched to discover more. Were her hips broad, her buttocks high and round? Were her legs as long and elegant as he imagined? The damn bustle and petticoat hid it
all.
Were they not in the center of the village under a tree but in his great hall, he’d be sorely tempted to—
Someone swatted his arm. “Ah hum!”
Ack!
With a sigh, he reluctantly ended the kiss and straightened. “Miss Beauregard. You found us.”
Looking none too pleased, she muttered, “And none too soon by the looks of things.”
In response, he shifted, blocking her view of Miss Conor who looked a dazed as he felt, and pointed to the branch above their heads.
Miss Beauregard looked up and gasped, “Priscilla Crawford! What on earth are you doing up there?”
Laughing, Miss Crawford wiggled the mistletoe then tossed it at Colin. “Catch!”
As he did, Robbie MacNab jumped to the ground behind them. Holding out his heavily muscled arms, he said, “Jump, luv. I’ll catch ye.”
To everyone’s surprise Miss Crawford did. She rolled from her sitting perch onto her stomach then kicked out and fell.
Robbie, good as his word, caught her by the waist. Setting Miss Crawford on her feet, he laughed and said, “Well done.”
She beamed up at him. “I thought so.”
Humph! Romance was definitely blooming betwixt the two, and Colin very much doubted the Duchess would be pleased.
“Robbie, if ye’re participating in the rope pull, ye’d best be going.”
Blushing, Robbie nodded. “Aye, m’lord.” He then winked at Miss Crawford, gave her hand a squeeze and darted away.
Miss Beauregard looked from Olivia to Priscilla and huffed. “Auntie will not be pleased when I tell her about you two.”
Priscilla rolled her eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. Besides, there’s nothing to tell. Olivia was simply caught under the mistletoe as you plainly saw and I was simply expediting matters that would doubtless happen at the ball.” With that she pointed to the mistletoe in Colin’s hand. “Please pluck a berry from the kissing ball, Mr. MacNab.”
Obviously annoyed, Augusta muttered, “Might as well take several. From what I witnessed you certainly earned them.”
At his side Olivia murmured, “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Augusta. Now, have you given out all the Duchess’s gifts?”
Apparently only partially chastened, Augusta said, “Yes, and no thanks to Priscilla.”
“I’m sure your aunt will be most pleased. I’ll take care of putting the basket and such in the coach.”
“No need. It’s done.”
“Grand. Mr. MacNab and I still have to select the winning Christmas bun.” She cocked her index finger and he leaned toward her.
In his ear she whispered, “Since you preferred the last and I the third, let’s agree on the first.”
“Done.” He straightened and signaled to the anxious ladies before the bun table. They raced toward him like a flock of excited geese.
“Well?” Mrs. Bryce shouted.
“Miss Conor and I chose bun number one as the winner of this year’s contest.” When the excited voices settled, Mary Elizabeth MacNab, the ferrier’s wife stood before him. Handing her a wax-sealed envelope, he said, “Congratulation, Mary Elizabeth. Yer husband is a lucky man to have so fine a cook for a wife.”
Grinning from ear to ear, she bopped a quick curtsey. “Thank you, m’lord, and Merry Hogmanay should I not see ye again this eve.”
“Same to ye, Mary Elizabeth.”
After she darted away, Colin turned toward Olivia. “We just made her very happy.”
“I love making people happy. What was her prize?”
“A month’s free rent.”
“The Earl is a generous man.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know ye think so.”
“Please do.”
She threaded her arms through those of her friends. “So that’s it. We’ve nothing left to do but enjoy ourselves. Shall we?”
Colin grinned, hoping the impish Miss Crawford had hidden mistletoe elsewhere around the village. He would very much like to kiss Miss Olivia Conor again.
“Ladies, this way. ‘Tis time for our annual display of brawn. The bonnie men of Clachankirk versus those callow lads of Blythe Hall. On the morrow, the men shall dazzle ye with their skill at the caber toss, the stone put and hammer throw but tonight they tug the rope.”
As they walked toward the common green he made a mental note to arrive earlier than usual at the Duchess’s mistletoe-bedecked ball.
An hour later he declared the rope pull a draw and looked about for Miss Conor. Not seeing her, he strode over to Miss Augusta Beauregard, who was in deep discussion with Mrs. Bryce.
“Excuse me, ladies. Have either of ye seen Miss Conor?”
Mrs. Bryce pointed behind her. “Aye, she’s yon, speaking with Mrs. Stewart.”
Colin thanked her and headed toward what was once Auld Angus’s cottage. As he rounded the tavern, he spied Miss Conor some fifty yards ahead, crouched before the youngest of Mrs. Stewart’s bairns. Fearing she’d disappear again, he called her name.
She turned and seeing him, waved. As he drew near he heard her companions bid her good night before they ducked into the cottage. Rising, she folded a large piece of paper and tucked it into her reticule.
Smiling, she asked, “Are the events over for the evening?”
“Nay, the music is about to begin then there’s the lighting of the bonfire.”
“I look forward to it, but first could we find more wassail? I’m parched.”
“Absolutely.” No man is his right mind would deny such a request from so lovely a lady.
Wassail in hand they joined the rest of the village singing around the bonfire.
During a break, she tugged on his sleeve and said, “My Grandpa Enna often told me a woman should be forthright, that I should always listen with my head and speak from my heart.”
“Yer grandfather was a wise man.”
“Yes, he was, and so I feel compelled to tell you that you kiss very nicely.”
She looked so sincere he had all he could do to keep from wrapping his arms about her and laughing. The lady was definitely in her cups.
“I’m quite serious.”
“Aye, I can tell that ye are.”
She studied him with big doe eyes for a moment then patted his chest. “Please don’t think me naïve. I assure you I’m not. I have been kissed before. Twice, in fact.”
“That many, huh?”
“Yes, once when I was sixteen and then again when I was nineteen.” Shaking her head, she sighed. “Neither experience proved memorable. Were downright disappointing actually.” She shuddered as if shaking off a bad memory, brightened and assured him, “But you, sir, have no cause to worry. Your kiss makes a lady a bit lightheaded, does linger on the mind.”
Lightheaded, huh? Excellent. “I’m pleased to hear this.”
Looking quite pleased with herself, she nodded. “I thought you might.”
TARTAN BOWS AND MISTLETOE
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blythe Hall
The next day
Warmed by memories of the night before, Liv woke with a smile on her lips. Colin MacNab had kissed her! Not once, not twice but three wonderful times. How Colin had gotten the clump of mistletoe he’d repeatedly held above her head Liv didn’t know but he had and he’d made good use of it. Yes, he most certainly had. Her knees felt weak just thinking about the way his tongue had explored her mouth, how his hands had burrowed into her hair and caressed her back. Oh, the sensations he roused within her!
A knock pulled her from her reverie. She rolled toward the door and found Maisey peeking around the doorframe. ‘M’lady, ‘tis eight o’clock.”
Oh Lord, how could she have forgotten? Liv bolted upright in bed and groaned as the room tilted. Whoa! No more wassail for you, young lady.
“Thank you, Maisey.”
As Liv stood, Maisey asked, “Should I send for your abigail, m’lady?”
“No need, and please call me Olivia.”
“Uhmm, as ye wish, m�
�lady.”
Liv sighed. Apparently it didn’t matter what she told the staff.
With time being of the essence, Liv put her annoyance with being called m’lady and thoughts of the amazing Colin MacNab aside and raced through her morning ablutions, dress in her least favorite morning gown and flew down the back staircase.
In Blythe Hall’s spacious kitchen she asked for heavy thread, scissors and a large embroidery needle. Two minutes later, she had the items in hand. After snatching a hot bun and some cold salmon from the cook’s huge work table, she gulped down some tea then flew out the garden door.
At the stables, Liv found Robbie assisting the stable hands with the horse’s morning feed. “Hello, Robbie. You’re just the man I need.”
Blinking in apparent surprise, he smiled. “M’lady, good morning. Ye’re up early. What can I do for ye?”
She told him about Mrs. Stewart’s barefooted children.
“Do I ken ye correctly, m’lady? That ye’re making their shoes?”
“Yes. But preferably boots. It’s winter.”
“Why not just buy them?”
“I would if Edinburgh wasn’t a two-day carriage ride away and the Stewarts weren’t leaving before I could return. Worse, it normally takes a week to make just one pair, so I’ve no time to waste.”
“But—”
“We’ve no time for buts, Robbie. I need leather. Might you have an old saddle or perhaps a leather apron that no one uses anymore?”
What leather he had available would decide the type of footwear she could make.
He thought for a minute then nodded. “I’ve an apron with a large burn hole in it and then there’s the auld Duke’s saddle. Dusty and hard as a brick now.”
“Perfect! I’ll take both. I also need felt, but an old blanket will do. Oh, and I’ll need glue. Any sturdy type that cures quickly.”
Ten minutes later, she had her supplies. Expecting a worn counterpane, she was pleased when Robbie handed her a thick shrunk wool saddle blanket. Now she needed a work space and a few tools. “May I have use of your hoof knife, nail pinchers and anvil? And hammer.”
Under The Kissing Bough: 15 Romantic Holiday Novellas Page 5