“Aye, then!” Archie swelled his chest, importantly. “I wouldnae ken who dared affix such foolery to my great hall’s rafters, but”—he shot a narrow-eyed look at Grim—“I’m having none of it.”
Grim folded his arms and said nothing, knowing when to keep his peace.
An empty linen sack was tied around the crook-head of Archie’s walking stick. And Grim had a good idea what the old laird had intended to fill it with: the last of Breena’s decorations.
Apparently she agreed, because she lifted a corner of the sack, questioningly.
“Sir,” she began, gentle reproach in her voice, “you weren’t going to try to collect the mistletoe yourself?”
“Me? Did you no’ hear what I said?” Archie spluttered, giving a good show of looking offended. “I didnae ken there was any hanging about! Though I’ll no’ say I’m no’ glad the winds be ridding my hall of such frippery.”
He slipped the sack from his crummock and shook it out, demonstratively. “This was to hold a bit of late-night victuals, is all. ’Twas the hunger that woke me, it was. I’ve a fierce appetite, see you?”
As if to prove his words, he gave a stiff little bow and then shuffled past them to a nearby trestle table, still laden with a few rounds of cheese and several platters of leftover roasted meats. Clearly dismissing Grim and Breena, he started thrusting food into his sack. First an entire head of ripe green cheese and then a large wedge of barley bread along with a small pot of butter and another of honey. He finished with more beef ribs than even Grim could eat.
When he turned away from the table, his eyes glittered with defiance.
“I’m hungry,” he declared, patting his middle.
Grim and Breena exchanged glances.
“The mistletoe should remain.” Grim spoke first, not wanting to offend, but aware others at Duncreag needed Yule as much as Archie, even if the old man was loath to admit it. “Some of the men traipsed far into the snowbound glen to fetch the greenery and mistletoe,” he added, ignoring Breena’s foot lowering over his toes. “The garrison men and the serving lasses deserve a bit of merriment.
“Yule is important to them, bringing reassurance that the long dark nights will draw to an end, the warmth and light of spring nearing by the day. A few kisses will boost their spirits as they wait for the sun’s rebirth.”
“Say you!” Archie jutted his bristly chin. “I say a man’s hall is good for more than kissing beneath pagan gew-gaws on cold winter nights.” He slung the food sack over his shoulder, weaving slightly beneath its weight. “Nothing like a fine late-night repast to cure what ails a man,” he vowed, lifting his walking stick in salute before tap-tap-tapping his way out of the hall.
Grim stared after him, not sure whether he should chuckle or frown.
Archie’s back might’ve bent a bit beneath the heavy sack, but in his agitation, he’d forgotten to assume his slow, shuffling gait.
He’d tap-tapped, but his stride was sure and true.
“The only thing ailing him is a broken heart.” Grim shook his head as Archie disappeared into the deeper darkness beyond the hall’s entry arch. “Few men half his age could make such a hasty retreat.”
“He’ll never allow Yule.” Breena sounded crestfallen.
Something else entirely troubled Grim.
She turned to face him now, the hall’s dim light not hiding the soft flush on her cheeks or the lustrous sheen of her glorious hair. Unbound and tumbling to her hips, her hair was a cascade of burnished, coppery-bright temptation. He couldn’t think of a man who wouldn’t ache to see such tresses spilled in riotous, wayward abandon across his bed sheets. As for the rest of her, the lush curve of her hips or the full roundness of her breasts…
It was perhaps best she was distressed.
Otherwise, he might seize her again, pulling her close, and kissing her even more soundly than before.
Indeed, he might anyway.
“You did your duty well, my lord.” Her words stayed his intent, especially her slightly displeasured tone. “I do not believe Archie guessed why we were in the hall so late.”
“That was our aim, my lady.” Grim wasn’t about to tell her he’d have kissed her anyway. Mistletoe or nae. He’d wanted to kiss her the moment she stepped from behind the tapestry, all righteous indignation and so lovely she stilled his heart. But he said nothing, not wanting to give her a reason to mention her lost love in Inishowen.
Just the thought of such a man twisted his gut. He didn’t care to imagine someone else holding and kissing her. Or her standing alone on Duncreag’s battlements as she sometimes did, staring off across the hills, toward the western horizon. No doubt yearning for her sweetheart.
Grim bit back a frown.
The gods knew, his face was anything but bonnie. He didn’t want to look more fierce by scowling.
He also wished Breena wasn’t standing so near that he kept breathing in her delicious scent.
“Aye, well.” He rubbed his thumb along his jaw, pretending to consider, hoping his tone wouldn’t reveal his agitation. “We now know beyond doubt that Archie has been snatching your Yuletide decorations. He didn’t bring along that woven sack for victuals.”
“I didn’t see you pluck a mistletoe berry.” Breena glanced at the nearby table where he’d set the berry. It gleamed like a snowy white pearl, a beacon in the hall’s darkness. “I’m sure I would’ve noticed.”
“It dropped onto your hair as we kissed.” Grim resisted the urge to touch his Thor’s hammer amulet. He believed the falling mistletoe berry was a sign from the gods.
Their approval that he’d kissed her.
Indeed, he was sure of it.
Didn’t the old gods demand that a man pluck a mistletoe berry before he claims a kiss from a lady?
“I didn’t feel a berry land in my hair.” Breena’s voice held a note of suspicion.
“I removed it before you would have.” He meant to dry the berry and keep it as a talisman. A token to remember the only kiss he was likely to ever enjoy from the maid who came closer to holding his heart than any woman before her.
Knowing she loved another made him feel like an arse.
In truth, he was one.
He was especially wicked for the thought rising so irresistibly in his mind. One that surely had charitable roots, for his idea would serve Archie well if all went according to plan. But Breena was an equally powerful inspiration, and after kissing her, his mind was veering in a direction he’d usually avoid.
Where women were concerned, he didn’t gladly go where he knew he’d burn his fingers.
Yet Breena had returned his kiss with equal fervor. She’d melted against him. He’d even felt the slight tremor rippling through her when she’d parted her lips more fully, allowing him to deepen their kiss. Her tongue had bewitched him, twirling and rolling with his. She’d dug her fingers into his hair, holding tight. Her heart had hammered against his chest.
He’d felt the rapid beats.
She couldn’t have pretended such passion.
So he stood straighter and wished she’d turn aside for a moment so he could comb quick fingers through his hair, smooth the front of his mail shirt so it shone properly. But she didn’t take her gaze from his, her lovely emerald eyes peering so deeply into his that he was sure she could see clear to the bottom of his soul.
It made him damned uncomfortable.
And it gave him a tiny flicker of hope.
So he took a deep breath and spoke true. “Lady Breena, there was more than duty in our kiss. More than persuading Archie the spirit of the season and naught else was why he found us kissing beneath the mistletoe.
“Truth is”—he hoped he wouldn’t regret his honesty—“the kiss was right pleasurable.”
“I see.” She glanced aside, clearly not understanding.
It also wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
He’d thought to tell her he’d kissed her because he couldn’t resist doing so. That no maid had ever before affect
ed him so strongly. She made him feel as if she’d turned him inside out and upside down, scattering his wits to the winds, and leaving him more excited, even giddier, than he would’ve ever believed a man could feel.
He was a warrior, more used to battle fury than the heady rush that swept him in her presence.
For sure he wasn’t a man of silvered words. Telling her the kiss was pleasurable was the highest compliment that came to his clumsy tongue.
Regrettably, the disappointment on her face warned he shouldn’t have said anything.
“I know well that men enjoy kissing, and more.” She turned back to him, her gaze locking with his. “It is the way of all men.”
“Nae, lass…” Grim started toward her, then stopped when she lifted a hand, creating an unseen but impassable barrier between them.
Something inside him shifted, breaking open to release a hot tide of rage like he’d never known. How could he have forgotten how she’d come to be at Duncreag? That she’d been kidnapped by Ralla and his band, their harsh treatment of her surely making her wary of a man’s intentions.
Though she didn’t speak of it, he suspected she’d suffered more than rope burns and cruel words.
Seeing her now, having held and kissed her, Grim knew he’d lay down his own life if only for a heartbeat he could make her forget.
If only for a moment, she would look at him with all the love in the world in her eyes.
A fool notion if ever there was one, as well he knew.
“You’re thinking.” She was suddenly right before him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Can it be you have a better idea?”
“What?” Grim blinked, nearly jumping out of his skin. He hadn’t heard her approach. For truth, she not only looked like an angel, she moved with the silent grace of a winged and sparkling faery queen.
Frowning, he looked down at her, feeling more like an overgrown ox than ever before. “I didnae hear you o’er the wind, lass. What did you mean?”
“Archie, of course.” She stepped back and glanced about the hall, her gaze drifting over the empty trestle tables and then lifting to the handful of mistletoe balls hanging here and there. When she looked again at Grim, her expression was bleak. “Repeatedly replenishing the decorations will serve naught. He’ll never relent about Yule. I fear there’s nothing we can do.”
“Dinnae be so sure.” Grim now knew he was destined for Niflheim, the cold and dark hell of Norse legend. He barged on all the same. “There might indeed be a Yuletide celebration at Duncreag, and one Archie cannae refuse.”
“He’s against any festivities.”
“That doesnae matter.”
“I don’t understand.” Breena’s brow pleated.
Grim smiled. “If all works out as I hope, Duncreag will have a Yule feast that the bards will sing of for all time coming.”
Breena’s eyes rounded. “Oh, that would be such a blessing. But how?”
Grim flicked a glance over his shoulder to be sure they were alone. “I have a plan.”
“You do?”
“Aye.” Grim nodded, silently wondering how the denizens of Niflheim would like the clacking of his beard rings. He was going there for sure if he spoke his next words. “There’s only one hitch,” he took the risk.
He was prepared to challenge the devil.
So he set his hands on Breena’s shoulders and sealed his fate. “If I am to succeed, you must accompany me on a journey.”
Chapter Three
“Wait, please.” Breena dug in her heels when Grim turned an unexpected corner in the passageway leading from the great hall. She’d been at Duncreag long enough to know he was taking her to the stronghold’s dankest, most crumbling tower. Known as the Winter Tower, it was the oldest part of the castle and stayed cold even in summer. No one dared to tread there and many believed it was haunted. If not by ghosts, then she was sure mice and cobwebs waited in the darkness of the tower’s winding turnpike stair.
Breena glanced at Grim, her heart beating a little faster.
Surely this wasn’t the journey he’d mentioned?
“Grim…” She gripped his arm and he stopped, looking down at her in a way that sent a shiver through her. “You can’t mean for us to enter this tower? Archie’s late wife, Lady Rosalie, used the topmost room as a solar. No one ever goes there, not even Archie.”
“That I know.” Grim nodded, his eyes glinting in the light of an iron-bracketed wall torch. “That’s why we’re heading there, to Lady Rosalie’s chamber. It’s the last place Archie would follow us.
“We can be assured of privacy in the Winter Tower.” Easing from her grasp, he took a small rush-light off a stone ledge and lit it in the flame of the wall torch. This done, he turned back to her, giving her an easy smile. “Only the mice and spiders will hear us.”
Breena blinked, wondering if he could read minds.
He stepped closer and touched her cheek, his big hand warm against her chilled skin. “I’ll no’ let either of them bother you. There’s naught to fear, no’ even the darkness, for we have our own torch.”
He held up the rush-light, which—to her mind—already looked in danger of fizzing out.
Even so, she put back her shoulders and stood a bit straighter. “I am not afraid.”
But the excitement that had filled her when he’d suggested traveling together was fading. She’d let him lead her from the hall with such grand expectations. She’d even thought he might kiss her again.
In truth, she’d hoped so.
Never would she have guessed he meant to take her into a musty tower known to strike terror into the hearts of even the stoutest garrison men. She’d seen some of them make the sign against evil upon passing the Winter Tower’s heavy oaken door. What concerned her wasn’t the threat of the tower’s unholy cold or dark spirits.
It was how dashing Grim looked in the dim light of the passage. How his nearness felt so shockingly intimate after their kiss.
A remarkable kiss she’d relive again and again all her days.
Just thinking about it made her breath quicken and caused a flurry of delicious sensation deep in the lowest part of her belly.
She couldn’t imagine being alone with him in the confines of a secluded tower chamber.
The very air might catch flame.
She touched a hand to her breast, hoped her voice wouldn’t betray her feelings. “The Winter Tower is eerie.” She gave him the best excuse she could think of. “Surely we can speak somewhere else?”
“Nae, we cannae.” Grim shook his head, the clacking of his beard rings loud in the stillness. “The only thing wrong with this tower is that its lady no longer stands at the windows of her chamber, enjoying the views, as she was wont to do every day. Or so I’ve been told.
“Her loss is a sad thing. It could well be that the walls of her favorite hideaway mourn her. If they do…” He let the words trail off, smoothed a stray curl off her face. “Well then”—he tucked the strands gently behind her ear—“I would say such sentiment speaks highly for the tower. Even stone can have souls, and feelings, didn’t you know?”
“I suppose.” She hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Perhaps the Winter Tower will appreciate a bit of company?” He cupped her chin, tipping her face upward. “We both agree Archie needs some. And where better to make our plans to help him than here?”
“You truly think we can?” Breena blinked. His touch made it difficult to think. How could she when such prickling awareness raced along her skin?
“Aye, I do.” He stepped around her to open the door, releasing a rush of cold, stone-scented air. “Come now, Lady Breena,” he encouraged her, urging her over the threshold and up the curving, age-smoothed steps. “I’ll make you a promise. If you aren’t at ease in Lady Rosalie’s chamber, I’ll escort you back down.
“Fair enough?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Yes.” She suspected she’d be sorry for agreeing.
“I’m glad to he
ar it.” He flashed a crooked smile that went straight to her heart. When he reached behind to seize her hand and give her fingers a light, reassuring squeeze, she was amazed she didn’t melt there and then on the cold stone of the ancient steps.
She also felt a twinge of guilt because he’d again called her lady.
She was no such thing.
As a mere village lass, the only daughter of a woodworker who supplied the countryside with wooden plates, bowls, mugs, and tankards, she’d toiled alongside her mother daily, just as her eight brothers helped her father or plowed the fields. Life hadn’t been easy. She’d been an extra mouth to feed, resented for not being another son.
She had about as much in common with a lady as a sparrow with a peacock.
Even so, she had her pride.
And she’d correct Grim’s error as soon as they reached Lady Rosalie’s chamber.
If he thought less of her, so be it.
She’d lived this long without an admirer, though she had given him her heart and a kiss beneath the mistletoe. That a man kissed a woman didn’t mean he cared for her. No matter that he’d called their kiss “right pleasurable.” Plundering a woman’s lips meant little to most men, leastways in a romantic sense.
That she knew.
She shivered, remembering the things her captor, Ralla, and his men had done to her. They’d stolen her kisses, her innocence, and, at times, threatened her life. They’d also taught her to appreciate men like Grim.
She knew in her heart he was good.
Unfortunately, she was also aware that most men of his standing only dallied with lasses of humble backgrounds. When they wanted a wife, they offered for the hands of fine ladies. Daughters of gentle breeding who came with land, a title, and a generous dowry purse.
She could offer Grim nothing like that.
So as they climbed higher and higher up the Winter Tower’s tight spiral stair, she planned her explanation carefully. When they reached the top and the door that would lead into the late Lady Rosalie’s sanctuary, she’d be poised and ready.
Or so she thought until they were finally there and Grim opened the door, letting her step past him into the night-cloaked chamber.
Once Upon A Highland Christmas Page 3