Snowy Night with a Highlander

by Julia London

  When they had at last finished tying the boughs, the elder boy, Tavin, dragged his father’s stool to the hearth and stood upon it, trying to reach the mantel. His reach was short, however. Mr. Nevin moved to help him, but Duncan waved him off. He took the bough from the boy and said, “Allow me.”

  “I’ll fetch the others, milord!” Tavin exclaimed, and leaped off the stool to gather the others.

  With the children gathered round, Duncan proceeded to tack the boughs to the cottage wall above the mantel. He methodically went about it, his heart and mind on Fiona while he mindlessly stuffed the boughs beneath his bad arm, then used his shoulder to hold them in place while he tacked them up. How she must despise him! Good. It was no less than he deserved. He did not deserve to think her light had shone through to his marrow. He did not deserve to feel her body, soft and small next to his, resting so perfectly in his arms. He deserved her complete disdain. He should wallow in it, for heaven’s sake.

  He was rudely brought back to the present when Collin asked what had happened to his face.

  Time seemed to stop for a moment—no one moved, no one so much as breathed until the lad’s mother cried, “Collin!”

  Duncan quickly held up a hand. “It is quite all right,” he assured her. “My scars are a curiosity, naturally.” He smiled at Collin. “I was caught in a fire. I could no’ escape before I was injured.”

  “Was it a very big fire? Was it so big that it burned the ceiling and floor and walls and all the furniture?” Collin asked, gesturing wildly to indicate a flame out of control.

  “Enormous,” Duncan assured him. “It burned half my house.”

  Collin gasped and looked at his older brother. “Were ye forced to leap from a window from the very top of the house?” Tavin asked hopefully.

  “No. I was pulled out of the fire by my servants.”

  “What the laird does no’ say is that he was attempting to save the life of his friend,” Mr. Nevin added as he steered the boys away. “He is a very brave man.”

  “I was no’ brave, Mr. Nevin,” Duncan said with a bitter laugh. “I scarcely knew what I was about.”

  “Did ye save him, then, sir?” Tavin asked.

  Duncan shook his head. “Devon MacCauley perished in the fire.”

  Fiona gasped; Duncan looked at her. She’d put a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry, but was looking at him with horror. Of course, she knew nothing of the fire.

  “The good Lord was watching over the laird. Thank God he survived the fire,” Mrs. Nevin added stoutly.

  “But what of his friend?” Collin asked. “Was the Lord no’ looking out for him?”

  Mrs. Nevin blinked. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, young man, and we’ve better things to think of now. We are blessed to share our Christmas meal with our laird. If you would, then, milord—supper is served.”

  Collin slipped his hand into Duncan’s and led him to the table.

  He and Collin sat across from Fiona and Robena. Duncan tried to keep his gaze from Fiona, but the smooth skin above her décolletage and her slender neck were impossible to avoid. He was mesmerized by her, entirely smitten, which just added to his pain.

  She, on the other hand, was very good in her efforts to avert her gaze from him. If she hated him, reviled him, it was impossible to detect. She was, quite simply, the life of the party. She exclaimed gleefully with the children when they related their plans for Hogmanay. She beamed with delight when Mrs. Nevin spoke shyly of how she and Mr. Nevin had met at a Hogmanay celebration. She then related a rather embellished tale of how she’d ended up in London, as well as her grand return to Scotland in a grander carriage.

  After a supper of roasted goose, potatoes, and the traditional bannock cakes—perhaps the best meal Duncan had ever eaten in his bloody life—Mr. Nevin produced a fiddle and began to play some old Scottish tunes. Fiona was instantly on her feet, coaxing Mrs. Nevin to hers. Mrs. Nevin’s shyness quickly evaporated, however, and the two women were soon dancing and laughing with the children, spinning round to Scottish reels, tapping their toes and heels to jigs and strathspeys.

  When Mrs. Nevin grabbed Duncan’s hand and tried to pull him up, he resisted. But Fiona grabbed hold of his burned arm and smiled at him. He was powerless to decline.

  They danced until they lacked the stamina to dance anymore. Mrs. Nevin collapsed on a chair, one arm slung over her middle. “Ye are an excellent dancer, milady,” she said approvingly.

  “It’s a hobby,” Fiona answered breathlessly with a flick of her wrist. “My brother and I once competed with one another. I felt rather obliged to best him, so I practiced.” She laughed.

  “A sword dance!” Mr. Nevin cried.

  “Oh no,” Fiona started, but Mr. Nevin was already pointing his bow to another room. “Fetch me walking sticks!” he cried merrily to his sons.

  The boys scampered out while Mrs. Nevin fretted about where to move chairs.

  Duncan stood back and watched them all as suitable “swords” were found and placed on the floor before Fiona. How strangely comforting this all felt to him—he’d always believed he would marry and produce the obligatory family only when it was absolutely necessary. And even then, he’d assumed he would continue to enjoy the favors of other women. He’d viewed a wife as nothing more than a vessel for his heirs and a hostess for Blackwood.

  Things were so vastly different now. He was a different man—a lonely man—a man who would welcome the companionship and intimacy of a wife. He’d even come to despise Blackwood for its bleak emptiness, where he’d once cherished his independence there.

  He’d like to have children, too, he thought, chuckling to himself when Collin tripped and fell over a thick woolen rug in his haste to move. He’d never given children any thought at all. But since the accident, he’d discovered that young children were the most accepting of the human race. They accepted his face for what it was and went on about their business, much as the Nevin children had tonight.

  How ironic it was to finally realize he did want to marry and bring children into this world now that his prospects had burned in the fire. Most of the privileged women he’d once known did not want a man as damaged as he was, both physically and morally.

  As he watched Fiona dancing the sword dance, her face full of light, her step quick and accurate and graceful, he fantasized about marrying her. He imagined them at a restored Blackwood, on Christmas day, with their own children.

  But in his fantasy, his face was repaired and she had forgiven him.

  It was just a fantasy. He harbored no illusions.

  Chapter Ten

  Dawn arrived too quickly as far as Fiona was concerned—she was loath to leave this idyllic little cottage in the woods. She’d enjoyed one of the best Christmas feasts she’d ever attended, in this cottage, with this family who’d been strangers to her yesterday and were now dear friends. And, surprisingly, with Duncan Buchanan.

  She simply must be mad.

  Of course, she’d been shocked to discover who he was, that she could not deny. She’d been angry, mortified, and furious. But in the course of the evening, something had happened. She’d seen with her own eyes how different he was from the man she once knew. Pain and disfigurement had humbled him. The man she remembered would never have condescended to speak to these people, much less share their Christmas meal, and it went without saying that he would not have noticed the children in any remarkable way. Or dance!

  It had given her a sense of just how far the handsome, arrogant laird’s pride had fallen. The change in him was extraordinary.

  But she was still angry, very angry. He’d known very well she did not recognize him and had allowed her to carry on, saying horrible things about him . . . not to mention her wanton behavior! She was just as angry with herself for being so daft that she’d not recognized him. By all that was holy, he’d said his name was Duncan, and still she’d been too stupid and blind to see him!

  There was something else she’d learned that cold C
hristmas night, when the world had seemed bathed in the white of a pristine snow and a full moon—she missed having a family. Oh, aye, she’d told tale after tale of her family, but the truth was that there was only her and Jack now. The atmosphere here—a warm hearth, a warm home, a loving family—seemed a world away from London, figuratively and literally. The Nevins’s lives seemed so much simpler than her life in London, yet in some respects, they seemed much fuller than hers could ever hope to be.

  She envied them that.

  But dawn brought reality streaming in through the window of the room she’d shared with Robena. She dressed early, wanting to reach Blackwood and deliver her message to Jack, then remove herself as quickly as she could with what little dignity she had left. In the family room, however, she found only Mr. and Mrs. Nevin and their children. The laird was nowhere to be seen.

  “Good morning, Lady Fiona!” Mr. Nevin said cheerfully. He was wearing a thick cloak and had his hat in hand.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Please, break yer fast. When you’ve done, I am to take you on to Blackwood.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The laird was gone before dawn, mu’um. He asked me to drive you over when you are ready.”

  He’d gone? After all they’d endured—and not forgetting the bloody apology he owed her—he’d left her here and gone on? Fury swelled in her; she forced a bright smile to her face and swiped up her hat from the table. “Thank you kindly, sir, but I am without appetite this morning. You fed me too well yesterday, I fear.”

  “No’ a morsel?” Mrs. Nevin asked.

  “I could no’ possibly,” Fiona said, patting her belly. She would choke if she ate a thing, she was so angry.

  She said farewell to the Nevins, truly hating to leave their happy home and truly dreading Blackwood.

  Unfortunately, the drive to Blackwood went smoothly and quickly. The snow was rapidly melting, but the ground still hard enough that the team clipped along. Mr. Nevin was a pleasant traveling companion, full of interesting information about the area and the estate. Yet he did not prepare her for the sight of Blackwood.

  They turned onto the long road to Blackwood that Fiona remembered well. In just a mile or so she would see the massive structure built on a hill with the Highlands behind it and a valley before it. But instead of the imposing towers coming into view as they drew closer, Fiona saw a blackened shell rising above the landscape. “God in heaven!” she cried. “Is there nothing left of it, then?”

  “The east wing still stands.”

  “But . . . but why has he no’ rebuilt it?”

  “I’ve wondered that myself,” Mr. Nevin admitted. “I rather imagine he canna bring himself to do so yet.”

  That made no sense to Fiona. The man she knew was too proud to leave his home in such a state. Yet it was a monument to a devastating fire, a reminder of that awful night he’d been disfigured and his friend had died.

  They drove around to the entrance, lavishly marked by iron gates that were anchored in the open mouths of a pair of massive stone lions. But the vista was ruined—the fire had devoured one half of a fine mansion, and nothing but stone columns, a hearth here and there, and various stairways remained, blanketed by snow.

  The butler—a different man than the one Fiona had known—walked out onto the stone portico that had somehow remained untouched by the fire. “Fàilte!” he said, bowing low. “Gaines at your service, milady.”

  “Thank you,” Fiona said, allowing Mr. Nevin to help her down from the wagon. “Is the laird about?”

  “Unfortunately, he is occupied with his solicitor, but he asks that you be made comfortable and join him for the evening meal.”

  “I had no’ planned to stay as long as that, sir,” she said pertly. But she wasn’t leaving before giving Duncan a thought or two. “May I inquire—is my brother, the Earl of Lambourne, in residence?”

  “No, milady, there are no other guests in residence. The earl has joined the laird’s cousin, Mr. Angus Buchanan, for a hunt at Bonnethill.”

  Bonnethill! Good Lord, did Jack ever stay in one place? Was nothing easy? “Might you know when he will return?”

  “I canna say, my lady, but Mr. Angus Buchanan is expected back for Hogmanay.”

  “Hogmanay! I canna wait as long as that! Is it possible to have a message delivered to him? It is rather urgent that I speak with him.”

  Gaines bowed and gestured toward the entrance. “I shall inquire of the laird straightaway. Shall I show you in?”

  “You might show me to a hot bath, sir, if you please,” she said, and turned to say good-bye to Mr. Nevin.

  Before she could do so, however, a footman appeared at the wagon carrying a large bundle, which he presented to Mr. Nevin.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Nevin asked, surprised.

  “The laird sends his gratitude for your hospitality, Mr. Nevin,” Gaines explained. “He sends these gifts to you and your family with the hopes you will enjoy them at Hogmanay.”

  Mr. Nevin looked down at the bundle. “Diah . . . what is it, then?”

  “Some toys for the children, a bolt of fine silk for Mrs. Nevin, and one of the laird’s prized hunting knives for you, sir.”

  Mr. Nevin gaped at the butler. “No, sir, I canna accept it—”

  “The laird is quite insistent, Mr. Nevin. You did him a great service, and he should very much like you to accept these gifts, which are a token of his appreciation.”

  “You must take it, Mr. Nevin,” Fiona urged him.

  “It is too much,” Mr. Nevin insisted, and looked at Gaines. “You must tell him it is too much, sir. We did only what he would do in our shoes, aye?”

  “Take it, Mr. Nevin. You were so very kind to us,” Fiona said again.

  He shook his head as he looked at the bundle, but could not help his smile. “The children will be right pleased, aye?” he said excitedly, and put the bundle on the bench. He climbed up, took the reins in hand, and waved at Fiona. “Good day, milady, and a very happy Hogmanay to you!”

  “Good day, sir, and thank you!” she called after him. As she watched him pull away, Fiona didn’t know how happy her Hogmanay would be, but if Mr. Nevin’s beaming smile were any indication, his family’s Hogmanay would be a very happy one indeed thanks to Duncan’s generosity.

  * * *

  Bathed, shaven, and somewhat rested after a night spent lying in front of the hearth in the Nevin home, Duncan was in better spirits. He’d gone about his business, reviewing his accounts and the plans for the Hogmanay celebration. At Fiona’s request, he sent a messenger to Bonnethill, requesting that Angus and his guest return to Blackwood at once, as an urgent matter had arisen.

  The underbutler, Ogden, who had become a passable valet after the fire, helped Duncan dress for supper that evening. When he had finished tying Duncan’s neckcloth, Duncan did something he rarely did—he looked at his face in the mirror. It made him ill, but tonight, of all nights, he felt the need to be completely honest about who and what he was.

  As he walked through the hallways of what was left of his house, his boots striking a steady rhythm on the pine floors, Duncan tried to see Blackwood through Fiona’s eyes. This part of the house was still rather magnificent—portraits, fine works of porcelain art, and carpets imported from Belgium adorned every room.

  In the red drawing room, he allowed Gaines to pour him a tot of whisky, which he quickly tossed back before extending the tot to Gaines once more. He glanced at his hand—he could detect an almost indiscernible tremble. Bloody hell, but he was as anxious as a goose at Christmas about this meeting with Fiona Haines. It astonished him that he could not recall a time he’d really cared what a woman thought of him, but this woman had crawled under his skin and rooted there. He cared very much what she might think.

  He cared very much.

  Too much—such desire would only lead to crushing disappointment. He had to remind himself of this during his interminable wait for Fiona.

  Whe
n at last she arrived, she made quite an entrance. The doors of the drawing room swung open and she stood there in the threshold, her arms held wide as she gripped both doors, staring at him with glittering gold eyes, full of a woman’s ire. She was wearing an emerald green velvet gown that picked up the flecks of green in her eyes. It was tightly—and magnificently—fitted to her. The flesh of her bosom swelled enticingly above a low décolletage. Fiona looked as if she belonged in a king’s court, every lovely inch of her.

  Bloody hell, she looked as if she belonged in his arms. Now. He could feel his body react, could feel that unconquerable male urge roar inside him. But it was insanity to hope—Fiona Haines would fare far better than him, and besides, the way she was looking at him now was a far cry from the way she had looked at him on the cold, snowy night they’d shared under the stars. She looked as if she could and might strangle him with her bare hands, here and now.

  Duncan braced himself for it, clasping his good hand behind his back.

  Fiona folded her arms, lifted her chin, and walked imperiously into the drawing room, her eyes narrowing on him as she neared.

  Duncan swallowed. Whatever she would say, let her say it—just say it. He wanted this over and done so that he might return to his lonely existence and forget her.

  Fiona cocked her head to one side. “You left me.”

  “Good evening,” he tried.

  “You forced poor Mr. Nevin to accompany me to your home as if I were a wayward orphan!”

  “I assure you, that was no’ my intent. I thought to spare you any question of impropriety.”

  She snorted and walked in a slow circle around him. “Perhaps you sought to spare yourself any questions from your friends about your traveling companion.”

  His friends? He had no friends, not any longer. “No’ at all,” he assured her. “I thought only of you.”

  She came to a halt before him, tilted her head back, and peered up at him. Her eyes were sparkling with her wrath, her lips, plump and red, curved in a devilish smile. “If you thought only of me, laird, then why did you no’ tell me?”