Christmas in Kilts

by Bronwen Evans

  “If he asks.”

  Charlie shook his head. “He just might, because he needs the coin ye’d bring him. But just remember, ye know even less about him than ye do about me.” He pointed to the box bed. “Go back to your bed—all alone—and pull the covers over your head if the snoring bothers ye.”

  With that he resumed his seat on the bench and stared into the flames.

  Chapter Nine

  “Me?” Meggie said, staring at MacAulay. “Is it really me you want—or my tocher, and an alliance with the MacLeods?”

  His eyes were steady on her face. “Those are the things I need. Ye asked me what I wanted. You’re the woman I want—brave, kind, and clever. And bonny—ye are that, as well, Meggie MacLeod, and I’ll not deny it would be a pleasure to have ye in my bed. It was a pleasure just to kiss ye. That’s not an insult, or because of any wager. Any man of sense would want ye. Ye’ll make MacVane or MacKay a fine wife.” He rose to his feet. “I’ve been as honest with ye as I can be. Ye’ve no reason to think I’d do anything ye didn’t want, or harm ye. Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll take a wee walk while ye settle yourself for sleep.”

  He went out in a gust of cold air and shut the door behind him, and Meggie stared at the crooked panels.

  Honest—aye, he’d certainly been honest. He’d told her about the wager, but he’d made no effort to steal a kiss, or to charm her into kissing him. She’d kissed him, though it had been anger that made her do it. She put her fingertips to her lips. It had been a surprisingly nice kiss. It might have turned to more, but it appeared that he had no intention of seducing her, either, not even for her fortune. She wondered if he’d considered the fact that her grandmother’s lands marched with his own, if he understood that if he married her, their combined lands would give him power and wealth even aside from her tocher. If she’d make MacKay or MacVane a fine wife, she’d make MacAulay of Abercorry a dazzlingly wealthy man. And she . . . she’d have a husband of her very own, a man she could trust. There were practical benefits for both of them.

  Could she make him happy? She wasn’t a virgin, but he knew that. Other men saw her as an easy tumble, but she saw something else in Hugh’s eyes when he looked at her. And he’d mentioned how brave and kind and clever she was before he’d mentioned her beauty. It didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of it. She understood when a man desired her. And yet his hands under her skirts had been careful. He treated her with respect. But she’d been wrong about Magnus all those years ago. Very wrong. What if she was wrong about MacAulay too?

  She stared at the door, waited for him to return. She wished she could pace the floor, but there wasn’t space, and she couldn’t walk anyway. The room seemed cold and desolate without him.

  She was still sitting where he’d left her when he knocked on the door a half hour later, waiting outside for a moment before opening the door. There was snow glittering in his hair and on his shoulders again.

  “Ye haven’t moved,” he said.

  “I was thinking.”

  He stood where he was, looked wary. “About what?”

  “About you,” she said. He looked surprised at that.

  “I thought I was in love with Magnus.”

  “Ye don’t need to tell me anything about—”

  She raised her hand to stop him.

  “I wish to. I’ve not said a word about it before now, not even to my sisters. They think I’m a flirt and imagine I, um, that I—spend much more time with men than I do.”

  He sat down across from her. The stool was too small for a man his size. The firelight lit the planes of his face. “I know that, Meggie.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “You do?”

  “Aye. It’s in your eyes. Ye hide what you’re thinking behind that smile of yours and pretend ye are what you’re not. Ah, but when ye look at your grandmother, or a crying bairn, or a half-frozen lass afraid for her grandfather, I see a very different woman.” He shifted and the stool creaked. “Do ye want to wed Magnus?” he asked. “He’ll want another wife.”

  “I thought—I was afraid—I might still have feelings for him when we came to Gleanngalla. I was in love with him once. It wasn’t until, well . . . after . . . that I understood what kind of man he truly is—handsome, clever, charming, and cold.” She shut her eyes as hot blood filled her cheeks. “He felt nothing for me besides lust, and the challenge of bedding a lass who should have been smarter.” She opened her eyes and looked at MacAulay. “I felt nothing when he tried to kiss me last night, when you saw us in the corridor. Anger perhaps. But certainly not love, not desire. When he came to my room last night, he found the door locked and barred.”

  His brows rose into his hair. “But I saw him—”

  She frowned. “You saw?”

  His blush was visible even in the red glow of the fire. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Ah, lass. My chamber is opposite your own, in the other tower. Ye were looking out the window, and someone came to the door—”

  She gaped at him. “You spied on me?”

  “I saw ye by chance. I looked away. I didn’t want to see ye with Magnus,” he said. “It’s your affair—I mean, your concern, not mine, and I—”

  Her heart bloomed. “MacAulay, you’re babbling again.”

  He stopped and looked at her.

  “It was Catriona.”

  He looked at her. “Catriona?”

  “She was the one who came to my room, not Magnus. You’d have known if you’d watched longer. But you didn’t.”

  He stared at her.

  “Would you have tried to kiss me if I hadn’t kissed you?” she asked.

  “I—I don’t think I’d have had the courage, in truth.”

  “Courage?”

  “If ye’d been just a flirt, just what ye want others to think ye are, I would have. But you’re not. Ye have a tender heart. I’d not risk hurting ye.”

  Her toes curled, but pain shot through her injured ankle, and she winced and uncurled them. “Will you . . . Will you kiss me now?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then his eyes fell to her mouth. His own lips rippled. “Aye,” he said, and leaned toward her until they were an inch apart. She could feel his breath on her mouth. But he didn’t kiss her.

  Meggie bit her lip. “What’s wrong?”

  “Before I kiss ye, I want ye to know—this isn’t for any wager. It’s because I’ve never met a woman I wanted to kiss so badly before now.”

  Still he hesitated, and she could tell he was thinking. She put her hands on his chest, and slid them up and around his neck. “MacAulay?”

  “Aye?”

  “If you don’t kiss me, I’ll have to kiss you.”

  He brought his mouth to hers, kissed her gently, then stopped. She sighed. “More.”

  He lifted her off her stool, settled her on his lap, and held her in his arms. He touched her face, pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear with such gentleness her heart sang. He cupped her cheek in his palm and kissed her, still cautious, his eyes open to look into hers. She could feel his arousal. This was usually the point where she would make a clever quip, leap up, and dart away.

  But not this time. This time she wanted to stay. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she tangled her fingers in the soft curls of his hair and kissed him back, kiss for kiss, soft and tentative, both of them wary. She opened her mouth to his, felt his tongue touch hers. His eyes drifted shut then, and his arms tightened around her. She was aware of every place their bodies touched, her bottom against his thighs, his arousal hard against the core of her body, her soft breasts pressed to the iron muscles of his chest. She could feel his heart beating. One of his hands spanned her waist, and she felt the warmth of it through the wool of her gown. It tingled. His other hand cradled her head, drew her closer, and deepened the kiss. She wondered if she could kiss this man forever—nay, she was sure she could. And yet, she wanted more, was willing to give it now, her reluctance gone. Had good sense abandoned her again? But his mouth on hers
was sweet, so sweet, and he made no move to do anything more than kiss her.

  On purpose, she wriggled in his lap, against his erection. He drew a sharp breath, and his hands trembled, though the rest of him was still. He opened his eyes, heavy lidded and black with desire. She let him know with her own look that she was willing . . . was that how it was done? She hadn’t had to tell Magnus, and she’d never wanted to tell anyone else. Not until now, with MacAulay. She took her mouth from his, kissed his cheek, his chin, the stubble on his jaw prickly and rough, so innately male. She reached for the ties that closed the neck of his shirt.

  He put his hand over hers. “We don’t have to,” he said. “I’m content just kissing ye, Meggie.”

  “I—want to,” she said. “Will you?”

  “Is that a question a lass asks a man? Ye must know I want ye. You’re sitting on the evidence of that.”

  “I ken what I’m sitting on. As for the other, I don’t know the etiquette, the right and wrong of who asks and who yields. I thought I did, but this—you—are different.”

  He lowered his eyes, fixed them on her bodice. “I have less experience than ye do, Meggie.”

  Surprise coursed through her. “You’re a virgin?”

  He looked up at her. “Nay! I didn’t mean I’ve never—” He shrugged. “I just meant—not often.”

  “Once?” she asked, breathless.

  “Twice,” he muttered.

  She almost laughed, but she saw his discomfort, his confusion. “Then you still have twice the experience I do.”

  He stared at her with the fire reflected in the gray depths of his eyes. “Truly?”

  She frowned. “Is it so hard to believe? I am not a—a—strumpet. I wasn’t Magnus’s mistress. I thought he was the man I’d marry. I thought I was in love.”

  She moved to climb off his lap, but his hand tightened around her waist, held her there.

  “There’s been no one else since . . . Ever? But you’re so—”

  She sent him a look that stopped his tongue instantly.

  He grinned at her, moved so his forehead rested on hers. “Oh, lass,” he said. “It would be like the blind leading the blind.”

  “Is that so terrible?” she asked.

  “Nay. Not terrible at all. Just—who leads?”

  She held his face in both hands, kissed him. “We both do.”

  He kissed her again, then pulled away. “Are ye sure ye want—?”

  She put her finger against his lips. “You’re babbling again, MacAulay,” she warned.

  He kissed her fingertip. “I won’t say another word.” He took her hand in his and put it back against the laces of his shirt. “Now where were we?”

  She laughed and pulled his shirt open, and slid her hand in to rest against his heart. He made a small sound of pleasure as he kissed her and reached up to run his fingertips along the edge of her bodice before reaching inside. She gasped when he found her nipple, brushed it gently, made it tingle and ache. “Touch for touch,” he murmured, and she smiled against his mouth, pinching the hard pebble of his nipple and sighing as he did the same to her.

  * * *

  They needed a bed, Hugh thought, still holding Meggie in his lap, their clothes in disarray, their moans growing more urgent as their touches grew bolder. He’d unbuttoned her bodice, untied the ribbons that held her shift closed, and exposed her breasts to the firelight. They were as golden and perfect as he’d imagined they would be, her skin as soft as rose petals. She’d worked his loose shirt off his shoulders too, and ran her eyes and her fingertips over his chest, making him want, need. Her fingernails tickled and raked.

  “A bed,” he muttered the thought aloud against her mouth. “We need a bed.”

  “Lay your plaid down with mine,” she replied, kissing him, pulling his shirt out of the top of his breeches and the kilt still belted around his waist, caressing the flat of his belly.

  It was almost painful to set her aside, even for the few brief minutes it took to unbelt his plaid, find hers, and lay them out before the fire. He still wore his trews, and he wondered if he should remove them. He looked at her, and she tilted her head and nodded as if she’d read his mind. He untied the string that held them and pushed them down over his hips. Would she compare him to—no, he wouldn’t think of anyone else now. Only her, and himself.

  Her eyes ran over his body as he stepped out of the trews, made him harder still. He ached for her, but he waited until she’d looked her fill. “You’re a bonny man, MacAulay,” she said. He held out his hand to her.

  “Come and lay down with me, lass.”

  She rose awkwardly to stand on one foot. “You’ll have to help me,” she said. “My foot . . . my clothing.”

  He knelt before her again, let her lean on his shoulders as he lifted the hem of her skirts. He unerringly found the tie at her waist this time, and the froth of her petticoat tumbled over his hands. With her trews gone, there was only sweet, sleek, warm flesh under her gown. His breath caught as he slid his palms along her thighs and over the feminine curves of her hips. He lifted her out of the fallen undergarment and tossed it aside.

  Her gown was open at the bodice, one shoulder and the shadowed cleft between her breasts exposed, and she slipped the other shoulder free and pushed her dress down her body. The soft saffron wool slid away without a sound, revealing the sleeker gold of her flesh beneath.

  He realized he was holding his breath and drew in air, looking up at her from his knees, wondering if there was any woman—or anything at all—that was as beautiful as Meggie. She was blushing, he realized—perhaps had mistaken his silence for disappointment. She reached up over one shoulder to undo the long braid of her hair, hiding her breasts behind her arm. “Come down. Let me,” he said.

  Mindful of her ankle, he helped her kneel before him, their bodies an inch apart, their breathing ragged. He reached for her hair, unwound the ribbon and loosened the braid. He spread the soft waves with his fingers and they tumbled over her shoulders, nearly to her waist.

  His throat closed as he looked at her. “Dia, Meggie, you’re beautiful.”

  She smiled and put her palm against his chest, over his heart, looked at him expectantly.

  “Are ye cold?” he asked her, hesitating still, though he’d never wanted anything more.

  She shook her head. “Are you?”

  He’d never been less cold in all his life. He began to laugh, and she joined him. He pulled her into his arms, her breasts pressed to his chest, their bellies and hips fitted perfectly together, and kissed her until they were both breathless. Then he drew her down onto the plaid beneath him.

  * * *

  It had taken Magnus a matter of minutes. She had not seen him naked, nor had she been entirely naked. He hadn’t told her she was beautiful. He hadn’t spent hours just kissing her, touching her, exploring her body until she was dizzy with wanting.

  MacAulay stroked and caressed and kissed her as if they had forever.

  His way was better. Infinitely better.

  She took joy in discovering his male body too, learning the way he liked to be touched, watching his face for signs of pleasure. His pleasure became hers.

  His mouth moved wordlessly when he liked something, and the muscles of his jaw and neck tightened. His chest was hard as steel under the soft heat of his skin. There was a soft dusting of hair, and a few manly scars. She kissed each one. His buttocks were soft as fine silk, but they tensed when she caressed them or traced the hard muscles in his thighs.

  He was exploring her as well, cupping her breasts, rubbing his thumb over her sensitive nipples, kissing her throat and her shoulders, her belly and legs, her bottom. She loved all of it, reveled in the new sensations. She arched against him, dug her fingernails in his shoulders, demanding more, all.

  She felt his erection against her hip, and reached to touch it. It was hot, hard, and silken, and he groaned as she touched it, caught her hand, stilled it. “Easy, lass. Slow,” he whispered, kissing her ear
. He slid his hand slowly over her belly to the curls between her thighs.

  “Touch for touch, lass,” he said. His finger dipped between, and she squeezed him as he touched her. They both cried out together.

  “I—” she began.

  “I know,” he managed, his voice rough.

  “Touch for touch, except—”

  “Aye,” he said, his eyes glazed. He drew a sharp breath between his teeth as she moved her hand, discovered new places that made him groan.

  And he moved his hand too, and found the spot that made her cry out and arch against him. He stroked her, and she let her eyes drift shut. He teased her, plunged his fingers inside her as he kissed her mouth, murmured endearments, drove her wild. She stared into his eyes as he took her higher, held her safe and cherished in his gray gaze. She was breathless, straining, liquid and heat and pure desire under his touch, and she let go and cried out, lost herself in the sensation of his hand and his body and his eyes, and felt her body soar.

  And when she descended to earth, breathless and amazed, he was holding her in his arms, smiling at her with such tender pride it stole her breath all over again. She shifted. She wanted more, touch for touch, pleasure for pleasure . . . “Come inside,” she whispered urgently against his mouth.

  He positioned himself above her and she opened her eyes wide. “Wait—I don’t know your first name, MacAulay. I’ve never heard it.”

  He smiled wryly. “In all the three days we’ve known each other,” he said, holding himself above her. “It’s Hugh. Hugh Padraig Aulay MacAulay, and I’m at your service.”

  He drove into her, and she cried his name out loud.

  A few minutes later, he cried hers as he flexed against her, drove deep and found his release.

  When they could breathe again, he gathered her into his arms, his body and his plaid wrapped around hers, and they slept.

  Chapter Ten

  December 24, 1711

  Catriona hadn’t spoken to Charlie since she’d left him by the fire the night before. When morning came and they made ready to leave, it was hard to avoid him in the wee cott. He was a tall man, and broad, and he took up a great deal of space. They brushed against each other out of necessity, and every touch made sparks cascade through her, not of fury, but of something else. She didn’t hate him now, though she kept her nose in the air when he came close. Her breath caught in her throat when he lifted her onto her garron and looked into her eyes. Heat suffused her cheeks.