A Highlander's Christmas Kiss

by Paula Quinn

  He rose from his seat again. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to sit with her, speak with her, look at her.

  “Far be it from me to keep a lady from eating. If m’ presence offends her, I shall leave.” He smiled at Murdoch and then at her.

  He bowed and, without another word, left the table.

  Before he reached John Gunns’s table, the doors opened again and Duncan Murdoch stepped inside the hall. He looked around, spotted Temperance sitting with his father, and headed over.

  Cailean stepped into his path, stopping him. “Where’s m’ horse?”

  “Dead,” Duncan told him with a trace of a smile he didn’t bother to conceal. “The trip and the cold were too much for the beast. He had to be put down.”

  Cailean moved closer to him. He’d never wanted to kill a man as badly as he wanted to kill Duncan.

  “If that’s the truth,” he warned quietly, keeping his temper leashed—for now—“I’m goin’ to tie ye to the back of yer horse and let him drag ye along the braes until ye’re no’ easily recognized. Then again, after I’m done with ye tomorrow in the lists, I willna need to involve a horse.”

  “The lists?” Duncan eyed him as if he’d just sprouted a pair of horns. “My father will not—”

  “Yer faither has already agreed. He is goin’ to watch ye fall to yer knees before me and then there will be no more doubt in his mind who among us is the better warrior.”

  He smiled ever so slightly and whacked the lord’s son on the back. Duncan almost fell forward. Cailean caught him and leaned down to speak low in his ear.

  “Ye should no’ have left me alive in Linavar.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I should have let you die.”

  Cailean looked away from Temperance’s angry face; his own was lined with guilt and regret. He would have preferred death over causing her so much pain.

  They were alone in the hall: Marion, Temperance’s escort, had left them at Cailean’s quiet request a moment after he appeared out of the shadows, blocking their path.

  Temperance moved to pass him on her way to her room for the night. His fingers around her wrist stopped her. What could he say? She was correct. He deserved death as payment for the life he’d taken from her. He knew, though, that it would not be enough.

  “I know the pain I caused ye,” he told her as a bleak, empty hole, vaster than the one before it, consumed him. “I know it, Temperance. I dinna know how to say I’m sorry fer burdenin’ ye with it.”

  “Don’t!” She pulled away from him.

  She would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself, just as he hadn’t forgiven himself for Sage’s death—or for Alison’s.

  “And what do you mean by fighting all the Black Riders? Are you mad?”

  Aye, he was indeed out of his mind. But it had nothing to do with his decision to fight Murdoch’s elite. “I fight fer ye, lass. I want to prove to ye—”

  “You prove nothing!” Her beautiful blue eyes sharpened on his. “Do you think fighting a horde of beasts will put an end to what you did? Is this your foolish way of trying to win back my favor?”

  He shook his head. He knew that winning back her favor was impossible, but he couldn’t let her go through with her plans. “I’m goin’ to get ye and Gram oot of here. I know ye want blood fer blood, but hear me when I tell ye, no good will come of revenge. ’Twill only change who ye are.”

  “I welcome that change.”

  She didn’t mean it. She didn’t know what it was to lose her heart to such darkness. He did.

  “The lord will kill ye if ye harm his son.”

  “And yet you came here to do just that,” she threw back at him.

  He didn’t care about his own life, but he wouldn’t let her ruin hers with Duncan. “Temperance, I—”

  “You wanted blood,” she cut him off. “You led your friends to the hamlet that night and you let them kill my father. He was innocent, Cailean!”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  He saw her hand coming but he remained still and let her palm crack across his face. The force of her strike bent his head back, but he returned his tortured gaze to her unforgiving one.

  “Which one of them killed him?” she asked, her voice and her hand trembling. “I want his name.”

  He wasn’t about to tell her it had been Cutty. He didn’t doubt the mercenary would be dead by morning if he did. After that he doubted he would be able to talk Murdoch out of punishing her.

  “Dinna go through with whatever ye mean to do, I beg ye.”

  “Go to hell,” she replied numbly.

  He was already there. He’d let himself fall in love with her and now he was losing her too.

  He loved her. And it was nothing like what he’d felt for Alison. It was bigger, more powerful than anything he’d felt in the past. His body shook with the fear of it. How would he recover this time? He wouldn’t. He didn’t want to.

  “Let me take ye back to the hamlet,” he begged her. “I will take care of Duncan. Ye’ll never have to worry aboot him again. Marry…” He paused, letting the thought of her with someone else sour his belly. “Marry someone ye love and live oot yer life in peace.”

  He thought he saw tears making her eyes sparkle in the candlelit corridor. The urge to touch her, to take her in his arms, stole over him. He didn’t move. Fear of loving and losing her paralyzed him.

  “I don’t want peace, Cailean,” she told him, coating her words with frost. “I want revenge and I’ll have it with a careful dose of nightshade. Lord Murdoch will not even know his son is dying until ’tis too late.”

  He stepped closer to her, tilting his head to gaze at her. Every muscle, every nerve ending ached for him to take her in his arms. “Will ye poison me as well?”

  She caught her breath at his nearness, then stepped back, widening the distance between them. “I cared for you and betrayed my father in doing so. Stay out of my way, Mr. Grant, or I will take joy in killing you.”

  He let her go and watched her leave with his heart in his eyes. He wanted to call her back, go after her—anything to keep her close.

  She didn’t turn back, but slammed the door after she entered her room.

  With nothing more to do, he turned on his heel and walked into Maeve.

  “Ye love her,” said the madam, reading what was clear in his eyes.

  Cailean’s gaze on her hardened. “I paid ye handsomely to get Marion oot of here and bring her to Perth. Why did ye no’ do it?”

  Maeve shrugged her shoulders, giving bounce to her cleavage. “I sure as hell wasn’t about to go to Perth alone with some pretty young gel. We would likely have been attacked on the road and either left fer dead or taken to someplace worse than Lyon’s Ridge. How would ye have found her then? I did ye a favor, Mr. Grant. But I wondered why ye offered so much coin fer her protection. I feared she belonged to a powerful family, so I spread the word that she was gone. Was that not enough?”

  “Nae,” he growled. “’Twasn’t. She’s still here, and the lord has grown fond of her.”

  “So?” Maeve argued. “That’s a good thing. She’s safe from the other men. But tell me,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Why do ye care about Marion when ’tis clear that yer heart belongs to Miss Menzie?”

  He didn’t care if Patrick made light of what his father… what all the men of Camlochlin stood for; Cailean believed in honor. He might have forgotten it these last few months, but he loved his kin for instilling the belief in him.

  “Decide where ye stand, Maeve. Kidnappin’ lasses and forcin’ them to please men is wrong and I’m goin’ to do something aboot it.”

  He left her in the hall without another word and strode to the barracks. He made a quick stop in the lord’s solar, making certain it was empty, and collected some parchment, a quill, and a small jar of ink.

  He didn’t know what to say to Temperance, but mayhap writing it would be easier.

  Dragging a chair to the window in his room,
he tried penning words to her with the moon and the light from a single candle illuminating his parchment. Nothing came. He tugged on his hair for more hours than he cared to count, wishing he could tear the words from his soul. Finally he flung the ink and quill against the wall.

  A knock came at the door. He didn’t want company now, but thinking it might be Temperance, he leaped from his chair and hurried for the door.

  Gram stood on the other side, waiting for him to invite her in. “We need to speak.”

  Her son was dead because of him. He didn’t want to speak to her. He wasn’t sure he could.

  Nodding, he let her inside.

  She eyed the ink-stained wall and then turned her gaze on him. He shrank back, too filled with guilt and regret to face her.

  “Before ye left Linavar,” she began quietly, “ye told me ye loved my granddaughter.”

  His belly sank as he awaited her just accusations.

  “Gram, fergive me.” It was all he could manage to utter. His heart had never felt so heavy, save for when he’d spoken to Temperance.

  “Fer loving her?”

  He shook his head. “Fer yer son. I—”

  She held up her hand to stop him. “Marion told me of the night ye brought Patrick back to the castle. He was close to death.” She drew out a long sigh and sat in the chair where he’d attempted to pen words to her granddaughter. “I know how difficult that must have been fer ye. Ye should have told us the truth, though I understand why ye didn’t.”

  Did she? He wanted her to know how difficult it had become to tell them the truth, first because of guilt and fear that they would kill him while he was weak and then because he’d grown to care for them—for Temperance. “Every time she spoke of him…” He paused to run his hands down his face, knowing what she had lost and what he could never give back to her. It was driving him mad. “Every moment I spent with her chipped away at m’ defenses and I saw with clarity the cold beast I had become, and what a coward, fer no matter how much I wanted to tell her the truth, I couldna.”

  Gram listened to what he had to say, shedding a tear or two while she did.

  “Ye might understand, Gram, but it doesna change the fact that I am responsible fer Seth dyin’. I hope ye can someday fergive me, but I understand if ye refuse to grant it.”

  “I do fergive ye, Cailean.” She offered him a faint smile. “’Tis Christmas. More wondrous things have happened on this day.”

  Cailean looked at her, feeling some of the burden lifting from his shoulders.

  “I’m thankful ye intend to save my dove from Duncan,” she continued, pulling a small handkerchief from her skirts and dabbing her nose with it, “but why fight ten men? Is this some sort of self-inflicted punishment?”

  He shrugged, taking a seat at the edge of his bed. “I want to free Temperance from Duncan and I thought that fightin’ fer her might—”

  “Prove yer love?” she finished for him, then shook her head. “She doesn’t need to watch ye beat men to the ground, lad. She needs ye to fight fer her with yer words. Show her ye’re no longer a Black Rider. I already know it, since I’d never let my gel marry one of those vile men, but ’tis Temp who needs convincing.”

  But wasn’t he the most vile of all?

  “Show her yer true heart,” Gram advised, “or are ye still afraid to share it?”

  He wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. Not with Temperance. “I want a life with her,” he told her, the sharp hook of regret that it was likely too late digging deep into his heart. “I dinna want to lose her.”

  Gram rose from the chair and headed for the door. “Then mayhap ye’d do well to tell her.”

  He watched Gram leave. Could it be that simple? Would pouring out his heart to Temperance be easy? It hadn’t been when he’d tried to pen the words to her. What if he did and she rejected him, walked out of his life for good?

  He lay back on his bed and tossed his arm over his head. Gram had forgiven him. Mayhap Temperance would too.

  It was Christmas, after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I don’t care if ’tis Christmas, I won’t have you decorating my castle with parts of the forest!”

  Cailean walked into the great hall and smiled at Gram clutching branches of evergreen to her chest and glaring up at Edward Murdoch with one eye.

  “D’ye care if ye go back to eating moldy bread and foul meat?” Gram challenged.

  Cailean sniffed the air sweetened with aromas of honey cakes and orange pudding. He wasn’t at all surprised when Murdoch gave him a defeated look, proving just how bad the food here had been.

  “’Tis best if ye dinna fight it,” Cailean told him. “Let her have her way. She willna be here after I win the competition.”

  “Her cooking is making me want you to lose,” Murdoch confessed, then waved his hand at her to finish decorating the hall. “I’ll be in trouble with the kirk if they found out.”

  “Pah!” Gram answered. “Like anyone from the church would come here.”

  Murdoch glowered at her and then turned to Cailean. “She’s been vexing me all morning about it being St. Stephen’s Day and how I should leave boxes of coins at the people of Linavar’s doorsteps.”

  “’Twould strengthen good relations,” Cailean pointed out, and went to Gram to help hang a bough over the entryway.

  “Are you ready for the day’s events?” the lord asked him. “I must tell you that Miss Menzie doesn’t seem to share your sentiments. Are you certain you want to do this?”

  “Aye, I’m certain,” Cailean said. “Are the men ready?”

  “They are. Most are already waiting for you.”

  “First”—Gram pointed a bony finger at him—“ye will eat!”

  Cailean nodded and looked around the hall for Temperance. He was glad when he didn’t find her. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand. Hearing her hatred might distract him from staying alive—or at least from keeping his teeth.

  Soon enough, though, his belly was half-full and he rose to leave the hall.

  Murdoch and Gram followed him outside, with the lord leaning in to have a few more words with him. “If you still have any fight left in you when you meet Duncan, I would ask that you don’t make him look the fool.”

  Duncan Murdoch didn’t need his help to accomplish that feat. Cailean nodded his agreement but kept his opinion to himself.

  Pewter clouds rolled across the pale morning sky, boding poor weather. A waiting stillness settled over the training lists where the men waited, some sharpening their swords. None of the fights were to be to the death, but these were mercenaries, and if an opportunity to gain victory presented itself, they would take it.

  Cailean moved onward, undaunted by the flashing metal and the icy chill that swept through the air and the ghoulish howl of the wind swirling around him.

  He spotted Cutty, whom he had been informed would fight tomorrow. Cailean suspected Duncan had ordered the ruthless mercenary to finish Cailean when he would be most weary.

  “Are ye truly goin’ through with this?” Patrick asked, hurrying to stand beside him.

  “Aye, and I’d appreciate yer confidence in me. Have I no’ practiced every day since I was a babe?”

  “Aye, every day before ye were stabbed in the back!” Patrick argued. “Ye’re no’ ready.”

  “I’ll be fine. I willna lose. I’ve practiced with these men fer four months and have never lost to any of them.”

  “Aye, that’s why they’re so eager to kick yer arse this mornin’. They all have something to prove.”

  Cailean was done trying to convince him. “Have ye seen Temperance?” He searched for hers amid the faces gathering to watch, but didn’t find her.

  “Aye, but she will no’ speak to me,” Patrick replied.

  Cailean needed to stop thinking about her. He looked to the men gathered around, ready to fight. None of them were distracted. When he’d trained with them in the past, he’d been a different man, colder, more ruthless, less me
rciful. He had to be that man today if he wanted to save Temperance.

  He listened to Edward Murdoch cite the rules. No striking a fatal blow. If an opponent could no longer defend himself he would be removed from the lists and the next man would enter.

  Cailean stepped into the lists, the hilt of his great claymore gripped in both hands. With a flick of his wrist the blade danced and flashed beneath a stray beam of sunlight.

  Erik MacCormack came forward.

  Cailean smiled.

  “He’s a stubborn fool,” Temperance said on a shallow breath, watching Cailean from her window.

  “This is my fault.” Marion chewed her bottom lip. “I suggested he fight for you, but I didn’t mean this!”

  Temperance didn’t blame her friend. What did fighting ten men have to do with her? Nothing. This was who Cailean was—a Black Rider. He enjoyed wielding his blade. Hell, it seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. He possessed an inimitable air of confidence. Each subtle nuance of movement, even the slight curling of his mouth when he met a huge red-haired mercenary, spoke of a man at ease with his skill, certain of his devastating power. Truly, she shouldn’t be worried about him. Why was she? She hated him. She didn’t care if he was injured. It would save her the trouble of killing him.

  “He enjoys this,” she said more to herself than to Marion. “He thirsts for blood.”

  “You know Mr. Grant better than I,” Marion said, “but he doesn’t strike me as a bloodthirsty avenger.”

  Temperance smiled benignly at the memory of Cailean’s rugged face. “Don’t let those wide haunting eyes and perfectly bow-shaped mouth fool you into thinking there is innocence in him, Marion.” Temperance knew what she was talking about. He’d fooled her. “’Tis the kind of beauty that has led many astray.”

  Marion’s smile on her softened. Temperance didn’t like it.

  “Could it be that he is such an accomplished master of disguise?”

  It was a simple question Marion put to her, but Temperance didn’t know how to answer. Could it be? She remembered his emotion when he’d told her about Alison, and then again when he’d told her about Sage. Had that emotion been feigned? Had the words he’d whispered to her while she laughed with him been empty? His passionate kisses meaningless?