A Highlander's Christmas Kiss

by Paula Quinn

  Miss Menzie hadn’t yet been in to see him this morn, but her cat hadn’t left.

  Cats, he thought while this one curled herself around his ankles. They were peculiar creatures. There were many of them in Camlochlin but they tended to find more interest in hunting than in forming any sort of bond with anything or anyone else. But TamLin seemed to have taken a liking to Cailean since the morning they’d put Seth Menzie into the ground and the cat had broken through the fog and found him hiding behind a hill.

  Cailean had had dogs his whole life. He didn’t know what to do with a cat—a purring one at that.

  He left the bed and cringed a little at the pain in his back, but it wasn’t unbearable. He took a slow, tentative step, ignoring the dizziness in his head.

  “Dinna give me that look,” he said, eyeing the feline resting on the bed. “I dinna care what she said aboot gettin’ oot of bed. She’s yer mistress, no’ mine.”

  TamLin meowed.

  How the hell was that sound ever supposed to warn one of danger, the way a large dog’s bark would? Cailean almost smiled at the foolishness of it and took another step.

  “Mr. Grant!”

  Her sharp voice rattled him just a bit and he grasped the wall to keep from tipping over. He turned to cast her a scowl, which she ignored.

  “Get back in bed! I may not be yer mistress but I helped save yer life. The least you could do is follow my instructions for a day or two!”

  She was angry. Her eyes blazed a most vivid shade of sapphire blue when she was angry. She was also correct. He owed her that much. But Patrick… he had to regain his strength and get Patrick out of Lyon’s Ridge. He’d never intended to be gone this long. “Miss Menzie,” he said, turning on his ankle. Damnation, he wouldn’t mind looking at her for a few more hours. She wore a simple white shift beneath thin woolen skirts of deep emerald. She had plaited two slender braids at her temples and circled them around her head like a crown. Woven through it were tiny flowers as blue as her eyes. The rest of her hair fell in loose messy waves down her back.

  She belonged to Deware.

  Cailean pushed down the lump in his throat and continued. Before Alison he’d been a wee bit shy around lasses. He was nothing like his brother Malcolm or some of his cousins, who had such an easy way with the fairer side. He’d always found more interest in fighting, and writing, and cooking. He’d never been with a lass before Alison, and there had been none after her. No more.

  “I’m grateful fer what ye’ve done fer me, Miss Menzie, but—”

  “You need more time to heal.”

  He knew he did, but if Duncan had tried to kill him, what would stop him from trying to kill Patrick as well? No matter how his body felt, Cailean couldn’t let his cousin die. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  He didn’t tell Temperance that there was another reason he wanted to get the hell out of Linavar. It wasn’t right that she was helping him recover.

  “I need to go.”

  She glared at him for a moment, looking as if she wanted to call him the biggest fool to ever live—thanks to her.

  Cailean wanted to thank her for everything she had done. But it was just as well he let her go without a word. He didn’t need to let the strength in her jaw, or the alluring shape and pink hue of her lips, not to mention her sharp tongue behind them, interest him. Most dangerous, though, were her sad, soulful eyes, veiled behind her lashes. He wanted to help her heal, but he was still raw himself.

  “You don’t need to go,” she tried again. “William already went.”

  He stopped trying to right himself and stared at her, the blood draining from his face. “Where did he go?”

  “To Lyon’s Ridge to—”

  “Why the hell would he go there?” Cailean’s heart boomed in his ears. If Duncan didn’t kill him first, Deware would find out everything—all Cailean’s secrets. Were they secrets? Aye, hell, they were. Cailean wasn’t ready for Temperance to find out he was a Black Rider. The Black Rider. He didn’t stop to ponder why he cared if she knew the truth or not.

  “There’s no need to raise your voice, Mr. Grant. William has been to the castle many times. He’s Linavar’s smith and he trades his wares there a few times a year. He—”

  Cailean wasn’t listening. He should tell her the truth before she found out from her betrothed. He opened his mouth but found he didn’t have the courage to tell her.

  “Yer betrothed is a fool, Miss Menzie,” he said instead. A fool who would likely try to kill Cailean upon his return to Linavar.

  “He’ll bring your cousin back.”

  “If Murdoch doesna kill him first.” He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head and shoulders.

  “You’re not still going?” She came forward, arms folded across her chest, ready to go head-to-head with him. “He’s gone to help you and Patrick. Why are you so stubborn?”

  When his shirt cleared his vision, she was there to fill it again. For a moment their eyes met in a battle of wills—hers that he stay, his that he go as fast as he could.

  “Ye’re just as stubborn as I am.” He scowled down at her, trying not to let the thick black fringes of her lashes or the tilt of her chin affect him.

  “Because I’m right.”

  “I’m no’ arguin’ with ye over that, lass,” he told her, bending his head a little to level their gazes. “But I have to save m’ cousin, and likely yer betrothed as well.”

  She clenched her jaw as if to hold back the rest of her words. He dipped his gaze to her mouth, sorry to have silenced her.

  “Are ye leaving us, Mr. Grant?” Thankfully, Gram’s voice at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

  “I am, Gram.” He straightened and stepped away from Temperance. “Thank ye fer yer care, and thank ye, Miss Menzie.” He didn’t look at her again when Gram held her hand out to him. He lent her his arm and left the room and Temperance Menzie behind.

  The house spun on his way out and his legs felt like warm pudding, but he didn’t turn back.

  He looked around the spacious house as Gram walked him to the door, appreciating, as his father had taught him to, the masterful workmanship. Had Seth Menzie built it? Connor Grant, Cailean’s father, would be impressed. As Camlochlin’s master builder, he had built many awe-inspiring houses. He would tip his bonnet to this one if he saw it.

  A large hall was built off to the right, and as Cailean passed it, he spread his gaze over the holly and mountain laurel decorating the wooden archways. It felt and smelled like the Christmas season. But the laurel was drying, and the absence of the master of the house could be felt like a December chill seeping through the walls.

  Cailean tried to remember the joy of the holidays amid the webs cluttering his head. He swallowed air that felt as thick as pond scum. Suddenly his back felt as if it were on fire. The flames were radiating down his arms, down to his waist.

  “I didn’t think the Grants raised fools.”

  He managed to hold on and even smiled, knowing where Temperance’s fire came from. “Every family has a few.”

  She agreed and bid him farewell at the door.

  He turned to leave and crumpled to the floor.

  Riding toward the fortress swathed in pewter clouds, William paused on his mount and shook away the fear that covered him. He could see shadows of guardsmen patrolling the gray battlements of Lyon’s Ridge. There was nothing warm or inviting about his lord’s holding. He prayed Marion wasn’t inside, or, worse, in the dungeon.

  He made it unhindered to the outer wall—and that was where he remained for the night. Only a dozen tradesmen were allowed entry each day. When his turn finally came, he displayed the goods he’d forged in his smith with a swish of a crimson blanket and was let into the inner gate. He quickly blended into the small crowd of merchants, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of Marion or anyone who looked as if they might be useful in leading him to her.

  Four hours, six daggers, and a masterfully forged cooking pot later, he met a scullery m
aid named Annie and paid her the coin he’d made from selling his wares. In return she gave him information from inside the fortress.

  “I know of a gel called Marion,” Annie told him while stuffing her payment down between her cleavage. “One of Maeve’s new gels, I heard.”

  “Maeve?”

  “Aye, she’s the madam inside.”

  “Madam?”

  “Aye, ye know—”

  He held up his hand to stop her. He knew what a madam was. But Marion—one of her gels?

  William wanted to tear at his hair. He’d been here looking for her before. He should have looked harder. She was here, being forced to… “I have to find her!” He moved to push past Annie but she stopped him. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone where?” His heart throbbed within.

  “Well”—Annie adjusted her bodice—“according to kitchen gossip Maeve was paid a sum of coin to bring her to Perth, to a holding called Ravenglade.”

  “Paid by who?” he asked, hoping some wealthy nobleman hadn’t requested her. “A nobleman?”

  Annie shook her head. “Nae, she was paid fer by one of Lord Murdoch’s men.”

  It couldn’t get any worse.

  “A Black Rider?” he asked, sickened. He’d kill any one of them who touched her. To hell with starting a war.

  “’Twas Patrick’s cousin, I believe. Patrick MacGregor.” She blushed saying his name. William barely noticed.

  No. No. It couldn’t be. His breath shortened and his heart pounded even faster.

  “Cailean Grant?” He had to be certain. Had he been correct all along? He prayed he was wrong.

  “Aye, Cailean,” Annie the scullery maid confirmed. “So different from his cousin that one is. He’s morose and unfriendly. I’ve heard the men talk about how he sits alone at the table and—”

  “Cailean Grant is a Black Rider?” And he’d left Temp and Gram alone with him?

  “Aye. One of the most merciless of the twenty, I’m told.”

  William’s blood drained and left him pale and terrified. He had to get home and save her. Temperance was his responsibility. She always would be. Panic filled him. Grant couldn’t have fooled them all that easily. And to what purpose?

  “You say he’s merciless?” William’s voice quavered.

  “I’m told to his enemies, aye. Around here he’s kind enough, but quiet—Oh, there’s one of Maeve’s gels now! She’ll know more about yer Marion.” She pointed the lass out to him. “’Twill be difficult to get inside, so if ye want her, ye best go get her now.”

  He turned to watch the girl stroll to another set of doors. He had to make a decision, the hardest of his life. And he had to hurry.

  William dropped his wares at Annie’s feet and took off running.

  Chapter Nine

  Och, nae, what the hell am I doin’ still here?”

  On her way out of her room, Temperance paused and frowned at the frustration in Mr. Grant’s voice. She was relieved that he’d awakened from fever for the second time now, but damn it, was being here with her so terrible? The fool was going to end up killing himself, insisting on leaving his sickbed.

  “You’re about to thank me for saving your life again.” She waited a moment, tilting her ear toward the sound of him.

  “All right,” he finally agreed. “Thank ye fer savin’ m’ life again.”

  The full, rich resonance of him snatched the breath from her body even while her logic reminded her that he was nothing more than a stranger. A foolish, stubborn stranger.

  She turned back to him, awake now, his belly crunching as he tried to sit up. He groaned and squinted against the blinding sun. Seeing him tossed her logic to the four winds. She couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on his whipcord-tight body. She’d felt it. Much of it, anyway, throughout the night and much of the next day. The last twelve hours had been critical, but he’d survived.

  “The more you fight it, the longer you’ll be here.”

  His resolve to continue faltered and he leaned down on his elbows. “What am I doin’ back here?”

  “You collapsed at the door.”

  “Ridiculous.” He groaned again and managed to sit upright. He rubbed his head, as if trying to remember. “Deware… he went to Lyon’s Ridge.”

  Aye, William had gone and she and Gram were worried about him, but they hadn’t alerted the rest of the villagers just yet. No need to incite panic if it was unnecessary. She prayed Duncan hadn’t killed him for trying to get Patrick MacGregor out. But William was no fool. He knew some of the Black Riders and had traded at the castle before. He would use caution.

  Cailean Grant, on the other hand, would not.

  “Has he returned?”

  He didn’t know anything. She could use it to her, or rather his, advantage. She wanted this Highlander to live just so she could think on him, rough and ready, some nights while she lay alone in her bed. She didn’t want him to die in her bed—or anywhere else. He needed at least a few more days, perhaps until Hogmanay, after she’d had time to kill at least the three men responsible for killing her father. Duncan, the Rider who’d nodded, and the one who’d held the dagger.

  “He returned but has left again,” she told him, only mildly repentant about deceiving him. If he died, he wouldn’t do his cousin any good. “But he asked me to relay to you that he was able to get inside the fortress and your cousin is alive.”

  William would pardon her deceit if he knew why she’d done it. To keep Mr. Grant in bed for just a little longer, mostly for his sake, partially for hers. She must admit that she enjoyed tending him, rubbing him down with Gram’s oils, feeling the strength and the length of his solid muscles.

  She knew he wanted to leave. He’d be gone from her life as soon as he could, and she would either marry William or live her life as a killer. There were no other options.

  “You’re fortunate to be alive,” she told him. “Your fever was verra high, like the first one, and most likely cooked even more parts of you.” She lifted her eyes less than an inch and gave his forehead a slight smirk.

  His gloriously large eyes and his reluctant smile revealed that he knew she was insulting him, and he didn’t care.

  “Tell me more aboot Patrick.”

  More? She didn’t know any more. Only that Cailean was afraid Duncan Murdoch would try to kill him for being a MacGregor now that Cailean wasn’t there to protect him.

  It had to be enough. One dead Highlander would be bad enough. Two and the MacGregors and Grants would seek even worse revenge. “Well, I only know what William told me. And that is that he met your cousin and Patrick is alive and well.”

  “He met Patrick?” he asked, looking a bit apprehensive.

  Did he not believe her? “Aye,” she confirmed. Good thing she was well versed in the art of deception, having practiced often as a child after she and William got caught breaking this rule or that.

  “Mayhap William will have more to tell you when he returns. You just rest now. I’ll make you some tea.” She turned to go.

  “Did he go back for Marion?”

  She stopped and rounded on him. “What do you know of Marion?”

  “Only what William’s eyes revealed when I told him I didn’t know her. I was mistaken.”

  What was he saying and did she need to sit down for it? She decided she did and sat next to him on the bed. “Are you telling me that Marion is in Lyon’s Ridge?”

  “Aye, I think so. I hadn’t recalled her the first time Deware queried aboot her. But I remembered her in a dream. There was a lass in the castle called Marion.”

  So William had been correct about Murdoch’s kidnapping her all along.

  “And William cares for her?”

  He turned to look at her. “I believe he does.”

  Why was he telling her? She looked into the fathoms of his eyes and then glanced briefly away. What would she do if William loved another? She wouldn’t marry him, of course. That would leave her open to Duncan, unless she killed him first.
What if Cailean Grant rescued his cousin and then stayed? What would it be like to kiss that melancholy mouth? To be the one who made him smile?

  “Ye look relieved.”

  She couldn’t help it. She was. “If you’re correct then I’ll be happy for him. He is my dearest friend.”

  “But ye dinna love him.”

  Was it so obvious? She shook her head. “Not the way I want to love a man.”

  His voice was low, his eyes aflame. “How d’ye want to love a man, then?”

  She smiled and thought about it for a moment. “The way my father loved my mother. When she died giving birth to me, he suffered temporary madness. He didn’t visit me for the first six months of my life. And then one day he did, and he fell in love all over again.”

  Cailean looked down, veiling his haunted gaze beneath his thick lashes. “Ye deserve more than a man who loves another.”

  “It isn’t for me to say what I deserve, Mr. Grant.”

  “Then let me try,” he said, and she noticed his hand was close enough to hers on the bed for him to move his pinkie over hers. “Ye deserve a man whose passions overflow fer ye and ye alone, who values your honesty and offers his in return.”

  Aye, that was what she wanted, but she didn’t have time to wait for such a man.

  “I don’t blame William for not telling me,” she defended her friend. “He was following my father’s wishes that I should marry him upon my father’s death.”

  He looked down at TamLin snuggled beside him. “If I could…” He paused and then began again, finally lifting his gaze to hers. “If I could go back and change what happened that night, I would do it.”

  Temperance thought that was the kindest thing anyone had said to her about her father’s death. She smiled at him. He didn’t smile back, but she was certain she noted a slight change in his expression. He wasn’t displeased.

  He didn’t remain awake too long after that. She was gentle when she covered him. Her tales about Patrick had worked, giving Cailean a bit of reassurance that his cousin was all right and he didn’t need to go chasing after him.

  But what if Patrick MacGregor was dead? What if William was too? Where the hell was he? Just when she was about to ask Gram to send her two biggest, toughest cousins, Charlie and Jack, to Lyon’s Ridge to find him, William pushed open the front door and stepped inside, bringing flurries of snow in with him.