All Things Merry and Bright

by Kathryn Le Veque et al.

  “Protest all ye want, Mariote, I will marry ye. And today. Now. And quit tryin’ to scurry away like a frightened rabbit.”

  Her back was literally against the wall. With her father blocking the door, the only other means of escape was to crawl through one of the windows or to die, right here, right now. Instead, she grabbed hold of all the years of pent up anger and frustration.

  Taking in a deep breath, she willed her anger away. “I’ll no’ marry ye. I will no’ allow ye to throw yer life away in order to save my reputation. If ye be worried that I might run off to marry again, I can assure all of ye that will never happen again.”

  “Damned right you won’t,” Lachlan said. “No wife of mine would.”

  Wife. Lachlan’s wife. The anger quickly returned and she directed it first to her father. “This be all yer fault,” she told him as she pointed a finger at his chest.

  From his confused expression, she could tell he didn’t understand.

  “Fer years, ye have kept every man within our clan from so much as lookin’ at me,” she said, her tone harsh. “So successful were ye that I truly believed there was no’ a man who would ever want me as his wife.” She was walking towards him, backing him up against the wall. “Because of ye, I thought I would die a lonely auld maid!”

  She was so angry she was on the verge of tears. The more she railed, the wider Alysander’s eyes grew. “Because of ye, I was swayed by the pretty words of a man I had never met. I believed every lie he wrote in his letters and I very nearly made the biggest mistake of me life!”

  Alysander glanced at Lachland. “Letters?”

  Mariote didn’t give Lachlan the chance to answer. “And now, ye all be speakin’ as though I am no’ even here, plannin’ to wed me off to him!”

  She turned to face Lachlan. “And ye!” she fumed. “Ye stand there tellin’ me I will marry ye. I will no’ be married off to save me reputation. I will marry fer love or I will no’ marry at all!”

  “But yer reputation—”

  Mariote cut him off by stepping toward him. “My reputation?” she asked, dumbfoundedly. “My reputation be none of yer concern.”

  “The bloody hell it is no’,” he said, stepping toward her.

  Mariote refused to back down. “The bloody hell it is,” she said.

  For years, every decision she had ever made had been born out of a sense of logic or practicality. And the one time she had acted on her feelings instead of her good sense, she ends up in a hunter’s croft, surrounded by her father, a priest, and the one man she could always call friend. And as it had been for the entirety of her life, she was being told what she should do.

  “Again, I tell ye, I will marry fer love or no’ at all. ’Twill be a man of me own choosin’. And quit smilin’ at me, Lachlan MacCaully! This is no’ funny!”

  Shrugging one shoulder he said, “But I find ye amusin’. And I will marry ye.”

  A growl built deep in her stomach. Letting it loose, she said, “Ye be the most confounding, pig-headed, ignorant fool I have ever had the displeasure of knowin’!”

  He continued to smile at her. “There are other reasons, besides savin’ yer reputation, fer wantin’ to marry ye,” he said.

  Stunned into momentary silence, she studied him closely. “Other reasons?” she asked incredulously. “What other possible reason could ye have to want to marry me?”

  Without so much as a may I please, Lachlan grabbed her about her waist and pulled her in. Mariote’s gasp of surprise was short-lived, for he pressed his lips to hers.

  ’Twas not a chaste, quick kiss. Nay, this kiss bordered on sinful. When he nibbled at her lower lip, she tried to protest. But the moment she tried to speak, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, delicately touching hers.

  It stole her breath away.

  It made her feel weak, no stronger than honey left in the sun. The anger she felt only moments ago fell away with the mere touch of his lips against hers.

  Had he not had such a tight hold on her, she might very well have swooned.

  All too soon, he ended the kiss by pulling away. “Do ye need any more reasons?” he asked, a glint of the devil shining in his bright eyes.

  Nay, she did not think she did.

  He pressed his forehead against hers. “Now will ye agree to marry me?” he asked.

  She nodded once. “But only if ye promise to kiss me like that again,” she said breathlessly. “And by again, I mean more than once!”

  His soft chuckle made her heart swell with a sensation she had never felt before. Though she couldn’t be certain just yet, she thought she might very well be in love with this man. After all the mistakes she had made this day, it wouldn’t do to start professing her love to him. He probably wouldn’t believe her.

  Chapter Seven

  Mariote’s Yuletide wish might not have come true, but Lachlan’s had.

  As the priest began the ceremony in the auld hunter’s croft, with Alysander as witness, Lachlan could not help but think back to that Yule Tide Eve. He’d made the same wish he’d been making ever since meeting Mariote for the first time.

  I wish to have her as me wife.

  ’Twas something he had been praying for for a long while. And when that bright star had flow across the night sky, he’d wished it once again.

  She was beautiful, his Mariote. With hair the color of gold, and eyes as green as summer grass, she was a sight to behold. Her fingers trembled when the priest draped the bit of plaid around their hands. Her voice cracked when she said her vows, but say them she did.

  When ’twas all over, he kissed her again, more sweetly than before. God was apparently in a most giving mood, for the moment he kissed her as his wife, the snow stopped falling and the wind took away the gray clouds. They’d not have to spend their wedding night surrounded by fifty highlanders, cooped up in a dirty hunter’s croft.

  ’Twas long after the midnight hour by the time they reached the McCullum keep. Mariote rode atop his lap, wrapped in his arms and his plaid. He vowed silently to always keep her safe and protected. To love her until the day he took his last breath on this earth and beyond even that.

  He could not express those feelings to her just yet. Nay, he would tell her when they were alone, away from prying eyes and ears. He could only hope and pray he could say them as eloquently as what had been written to her in those blasted letters.

  ’Twas highly unlikely, for he was a warrior.

  But he was certainly willing to give it a try.

  The End

  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling Author, storyteller and cheeky wench, SUZAN TISDALE lives in the Midwest with her verra handsome carpenter husband. All but one of her children have left the nest. Her pets consist of dust bunnies and a dozen poodle-sized, backyard-dwelling groundhogs – all of which run as free and unrestrained as the voices in her head. And she doesn’t own a single pair of yoga pants, much to the shock and horror of her fellow authors. She prefers to write in her pajamas.

  Suzan writes Scottish historical romance/fiction, with honorable and perfectly imperfect heroes and strong, feisty heroines. And bad guys she kills off in delightfully wicked ways.

  www.suzantisdale.com

  A Very Brethren Christmas

  Barbara Devlin

  Brethren of the Coast Series

  Loving Lieutenant Douglas

  Enter the Brethren

  My Lady, the Spy

  The Most Unlikely Lady

  One-Knight Stand

  Captain of Her Heart

  The Lucky One

  Love with an Improper Stranger

  To Catch a Fallen Spy

  Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me

  The Duke Wears Nada

  A Very Brethren Christmas

  Owner of a Lonely Heart

  Chapter One

  London

  December 20, 1816

  It all started with an insult. A perfect storm of haphazard societal blunders provoked by an honest mistak
e, which resulted in unforgiveable rudeness and a subsequent inexcusable slight, that helped Admiral Mark Douglas win the love of his life. Of course, he did not know it then, but the singular moment borne of ignorance would forever alter his destiny, in ways he could not have imagined at the time.

  To her credit and his inexpressible good fortune, Lady Amanda, his cherished wife, had been blessed with a charitable spirit and a wicked sense of humor, because she took pity on a lowly sailor, pardoned his transgressions, and gifted her most precious possession—her heart. With his inimitable society miss at his side, he rose through the ranks of the Royal Navy with heretofore unheard of haste, thanks to a lethal combination of his military prowess and her family connections.

  The fortuitous turn of events led him to where he sat, in the chamber of Robert Dundas, second Viscount Melville and First Lord of the Admiralty. Mark shifted his weight and peered at the world beyond the windows, as a light snow fell. In his mind he cursed, because he planned to depart the city for his country estate that afternoon, to arrive in time to celebrate Christmastide with his family, but the viscount’s fickle behavior waylaid Mark’s aim.

  “This is ridiculous,” whispered Admiral Frederick Maitland, one of Mark’s oldest friends and confidants. “We have been here all morning. How long is he going to study the same bloody documents and charts?”

  “Until he makes a decision regarding the open post.” Just then, the viscount glanced in Mark’s direction, opened and closed his mouth, and Mark held his breath, but Melville spoke naught. From his pocket, he pulled out his timepiece. “Hell and the Reaper, the hour grows late, and I am to leave for Kent for the holidays.”

  “Given the weather, that is not a good idea.” Maitland arched a brow. “You had better wait until tomorrow morning, because the roads may be treacherous, and you could injure a horse or break a wheel, in the dark.”

  “It is a risk I am willing to take, or I may miss Christmastide.” Mark tugged at his stock. “If that happens, Amanda will have my head or some other important part of my anatomy.”

  “That is why I never married.” Maitland snickered. “Although your woman is quite handsome enough to tempt me. Alas, she only has eyes for you, which calls into question her sanity.”

  “Very funny.” From his waistcoat pocket, he drew a miniature portrait. Framed in an oval gold encasement encrusted with tiny pearls and sapphires, the Cosway depicted Amanda’s beauty but failed to capture her fiery spirit. That, alone, belonged to Mark. “And I consider Amanda’s choice a sign of her uncommon intelligence.”

  “Well said, well said.” Maitland winked and slumped over the armrest. “Now, if we could only escape this den of inane tedium before I lose my patience and run amok. Then I shall be arrested and discredited, and you will have to vouch for my character, that I might avoid permanent institutionalization in an asylum, where I will spend the rest of my days gazing at nothing, in silent reflection, and drooling.”

  “You know, I believe you missed your true calling.” Mark snorted. “Because you could have been an actor on a stage.”

  Melville cleared his throat, and Mark and Maitland came alert.

  “Gentlemen, each of you were summoned for an expressed purpose, and I thank you for your forbearance as I weighed my decision.” The viscount closed a folder and rested his hands atop the blotter, and Mark sat at attention, hoping for a quick resolution and dismissal. “Before I announce the requisite promotions, I would have you know the process by which I came to certain conclusions.”

  Inwardly, Mark swore a blue streak.

  For the next twenty or so minutes, Melville detailed various useless bits of procedure, none of which interested Mark. He crossed and uncrossed his feet, as he twiddled his thumbs. He folded and unfolded his arms. He shifted left and then right. He gritted his teeth against a groan of frustration, and just when he could take no more delays, the viscount met Mark’s stare and smiled.

  “Admiral Douglas, it is my pleasure to promote you to the position of First Sea Lord. As you know, that makes you military head of the Navy.” In that moment, Mark could have swooned, as his ears rang, and the viscount said, “And Admiral Maitland, you are to be Second Sea Lord. My hearty congratulations, gentlemen.” Melville stood, walked to a side table, lifted a crystal decanter, and poured three balloons of brandy. “Let us celebrate with a toast and, perhaps, dinner, as the hour is late, and I am famished.”

  “Bloody hell.” Mark swore under his breath and clenched his fists, as he rose from his chair. “Er—thank you, sir.” Of course, he could not decline the invitation. “It would be my honor.”

  “Then I shall offer a toast.” Melville held high his glass, and Mark and Maitland followed suit. “To the Royal Navy and the Board of Admiralty. Long may we reign in service to the Crown.”

  “Hear, hear.” Maitland glanced at Mark and arched a brow. “By all means, let us eat, else I may gnaw on my boot leather, because I am so hungry I could eat the arse end of a dead elephant.”

  “How appetizing.” The viscount grimaced, set his glass on the desk, and retrieved his hat and coat from a wall peg. “Then let us away to Gunderson’s, as I fancy their pork roast.”

  “Well this is a fine mess.” At the rear, Mark huddled with Maitland, as they navigated a maze of halls. “I suppose I have no choice but to depart tomorrow. And what of you? Where will you spend the holidays?”

  “Like you, I travel to my estate in Kent.” Maitland shrugged into his greatcoat as they stepped outside, and a cold wind whispered and thrummed. “But I have no angry bride awaiting my arrival, so I am unhurried.”

  “Why don’t you journey with me?” Mark signaled his coachman. “I would enjoy your company, and Amanda will only be vexed if I am late for Christmastide, but I submit she will forgive me when she hears of my promotion.”

  “If it is not too much trouble.” As usual, Maitland thrust two fingers into his mouth and gave vent to an earsplitting whistle. “And Melville could not have chosen a better man for First Sea Lord, my lord.”

  “The title is used only when I act in official capacity, and I will thank you to remember that, because I was not to the manor born.” Mark shook his head and frowned at the grey clouds and now heavy snowfall. “Do me a favor. Be at my home at dawn, because I would depart, posthaste.”

  Despite the relatively early hour, the foyer posited a dark cavern, as Lady Amanda Douglas lit a candle and peered out the window. To her dismay, the world beyond the glass manifested a winter wonderland, as snow blanketed the earth beneath an angry sky. Normally, she would pass the time abed, with her husband, but Mark had yet to come home, and she fretted for his safety, given he was overdue to arrive.

  Shivering, she pulled her Norwich shawl over her shoulders and lamented the absence of her naval man, because Mark possessed a particular flair for keeping her warm, and she longed for his strong embrace and soul-stirring kisses. Never should she have let him talk her into departing for Kent without him, a fortnight ago, because they always traveled together. But their youngest, Horatio, waned in town. Much like his father, he preferred the country, and Mark fretted for his son’s health. However, in the future, she would remain at Mark’s side. On the entry table, she spied an envelope and a small box addressed to her, and she snatched both items.

  “Good morning, my lady.” Hamilton, the butler, bowed. “Breakfast is served in the back parlor, per your wishes. And I had Cook prepare a pot of the tea you favor so much, as we received a delivery yesterday.”

  “Hamilton, when did this letter and parcel arrive?” she asked, as she tore open the note and unfolded the parchment. “And my thanks, because you are attentive, as always.”

  “Before dawn, my lady.” Hamilton scrutinized a misplaced vase of hothouse roses, a gift from Mark, which was delivered the previous day, and adjusted the blooms. “Given it was not marked as urgent, and the messenger did not indicate it was an emergency, I did not think it wise to disturb you.”

  “But it could be importa
nt, as we are expecting the entire family for Christmastide.” Franked in London, the missive bore telltale script, and her fingers shook. “Oh, it is from the Admiral.”

  December 17, 1816

  My darling Amanda,

  I hope this note finds you well, even as I am grievously wounded by our continued separation and pining for your sweet face, which haunts me every moment we are apart. While I planned to depart London on the eighteenth, and gave you my word I would do so, I am delayed by order of the First Lord of the Admiralty, Viscount Melville, and duty calls, my lady. Thus, I shall quit the city on the twentieth, after the morning meeting. Please, know that this news hurts me far more than it does you, as I am tormented by your absence in our bed, which is so very cold without your loving and oh-so accommodating presence.

  When we are reunited, sooner than later, if I am lucky, I shall endeavor to express the depth of my suffering—like fifty men, my Amanda. By now, you know what that means, and you had better brace yourself, because I am coming for you, my girl. Until that happy time, I offer a modest token, which harkens a resemblance to your eyes but pales in comparison to your beauty, in the expressed hope that you might take pity on a poor seaman and wear it, and it alone, for my delectation, when I am again sheltered in your unyielding embrace.

  All my love,

  Your Mark

  “Felicitous tidings, I pray?” The butler, whose service to the family began on Mark and Amanda’s wedding day, stretched tall and shuffled his feet. “Is the Admiral well, my lady?”

  “You could say that, and the Admiral is in fine fettle.” Married thirty years, and the man could still compose a billet-doux that gave her gooseflesh. With a smile, she resolved to add his latest composition to her rather impressive collection, which dated to their courtship. “And according to his message, he should have left London sometime today, when I had anticipated he would be home.” Biting her lip in anticipation, as her thoughts ran wild, given Mark’s salacious habits, which she adored, she tore the brown paper from the box and lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of pristine cotton, sat a stunning necklace of gold, with diamonds and sapphires. “Oh, Mark.”